


I'll Be Better Tomorrow

by emptypockets



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Ethical Dilemmas, Hurt/Comfort, Jack is only in chapter 1 and the boys aren't in this much at all, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, actually the Monster of the Week hat only exists because of this fic, angst front to back GUARANTEED, i really had to dig into my Monster of the Week hat for this, since covid is postponing the chibnall masterplan have the Levi Masterplan, slow burn but a LOT happens in the meantime so it kinda balances out, some violence but nothing worse than you'd see on the show, the Doctor isn't Quite Right after three years in solitary confinement, the universe is cruel and so am i, thirteen bby i'm so sorry, with some breathers and Important Discussions in between because I'm only human, yaz is a solo companion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptypockets/pseuds/emptypockets
Summary: Who is she? If she’s so much 'more', containing so many multitudes, who is this suddenly foreign version of herself that’s been formed out of deceit?The Doctor. That’s it. She’s just the Doctor, and that will never change.The thing is, she wants to do better. She can do better, she knows she can do better.But unfortunately for the Doctor, the universe seems determined to prove her wrong.
Comments: 66
Kudos: 124





	1. Prequel

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO HELLO 
> 
> I've been working on this for months and wasn't gonna post it until its finished but I'm impatient so HERE YOU GO 
> 
> Huge thanks to Sara (hellynz) for being a wonderful beta. This would've taken me AGES without her, and to the creators discord for being so encouraging and lovely during my mindless rants in the process 
> 
> For now I'm gonna be updating once a week so that I have a good bit of room to stay ahead. I have 8 chapters written and I think it'll end up being close to 20?? We'll see what happens 
> 
> Enjoy the angstfest

Solitary confinement is the time-out corner for really bad people. There might as well have been a sign on the Doctor’s cell wall that said ‘ _think about what you’ve done’._ She might, she’d love to, in fact, if she knew what exactly she did.

 _Fugitive: The Doctor,_ they said, before transporting her to this dank, dingy room that always maintained a temperature just cool enough to be uncomfortable. Not enough space to walk more than a few paces in one direction then the other, let alone run and work out the aches in unworked legs. _Fugitive._ That had few hints in and of itself that the Doctor only spent the first two weeks trying to unpack. After that, she cared a lot less. 

_Think about what you’ve done,_ was the vibe she got when she first arrived. No one came to check on her, no one brought her food or water, like a misguided parent denying their child dinner until the child confessed _they_ shattered the vase, not their sibling. _“What do you want from me?”_ She wondered aloud, and for two weeks, she did what her imprisoners wanted. She thought about what she’d done, where she’d been, who she’d been with, spent her days retelling stories she’s already lived and reliving stories she’s already told, all to herself, all in the quiet, in the dark that was just as frightening when she closed her eyes as it was when she opened them. It did little more than help to pass the time at first, and when she’d reminisced through every notable adventure and thrill in her unreliable memory, she moved on to bigger things, deeper things that left her with fingers digging into her temples to calm the storm. After a long while, long enough that her hands had acquired a malnourished tremor and her legs nearly lost their will to stand, the Judoon _finally_ started bringing her food and water once a day. Good enough. She’d live at least.

She’s not cut out for solitary confinement, the Doctor had decided after a few more weeks. Her head is a frighteningly vast sea of unkind memories and cruel intrusive thoughts, and of course, they caught up with her in the end. 

The Doctor has been locked up for one hundred and twenty-three days. Not a sight to see, not a sound nor a stimulus bar her own breathing and the building whispers in her subconscious — and at one point she swears… she _swears_ she feels the Master connect with her. That telepathic nudge through the side door of her senses like the ping of a text message, a sense of unease, a chill that somehow sends a miniscule pulse of warmth through otherwise numb veins. It’s a distinct feeling, and it feels like _him._

But when she reaches back, reaches _out,_ stumbles through the mess that is her own mind, tripping over nightmares and good memories and bad ones _\--_ there’s nothing. There’s no one. 

She’s alone.

That’s not the only time he makes a delusive appearance. 

They say hallucinations are a universal sign you’re going crazy, so the Doctor tells herself that these are _not,_ in fact, hallucinations. Just… very very vivid echoes of the past dancing about in her very own cell before her very own eyes. Perfectly normal. She’s perfectly sane. 

She sees the Citadel most of the time, in ruins and ablaze, and she sees herself; detonator in hand, a little Ashad figurine pinned to the front. She sees the Master, begging for the sweet release of oblivion that he’ll only ever accept by her hand. If the universe is ever to be rid of his immorality, his corrupted hearts and shattered conscience, it’ll have to be her finger that pulls the trigger. 

Of course, she didn’t pull the trigger that day. Maybe it was weakness, maybe it was strength. Maybe it was the first step of realization towards a new life, a life in the _right_ direction, a life where she makes the right choices. Leaving Ko Sharmus with that responsibility was wrong, horribly, terribly wrong, but she’ll take that fatal mistake in her stride, hold it tight, learn from it. Because she doesn’t plan to make anymore.

He really thought he’d broken her that day. The Master thought he’d stripped the Doctor down to nothing, deprived her of everything she ever was and ever will be, and he’d smiled something so sickening at his thought-to-be victory. It was an elating satisfaction to prove him wrong.

 _“You think you've broken me? You'll have to try harder than that. You've given me a gift of myself. You think that could destroy me? You think that makes me lesser? It makes me more. I contain multitudes, more than I ever thought or knew. You want me to be scared of it because you're scared of everything — but I am_ so _much more than you.”_

So who is she? If she’s so much more, containing so many multitudes, who is this suddenly foreign version of herself that’s been formed out of deceit? 

The Doctor. That’s it. She’s just _the Doctor,_ and that will never change. 

The thing is, she wants to do better. She wants to do _more._

She _can_ do better, she knows she can do better. She can hold the universe in her palms and mould it how she pleases — if anyone has that jurisdiction, it’s her. She can manipulate time itself without batting an eye and leave it at her mercy, to do her will. 

_Been there, done that,_ she tells herself one night, laying on her back with feet propped up against the wall and gaze resting on the stars. There have been multiple times she took the title of _Time Lord_ as it was, abused it to its core, and nearly brought the universe to the ground. She learned from that, _re_ learned against her will what she can and cannot do. She won’t revert, she won’t become that dangerous, frightening man she once was that bent the laws of time until they snapped in half. 

She’s been to a lot of places, met a lot of people, made _a lot_ of mistakes, and learned a lot of things. 

And the Doctor believes, with every fiber of her being and broken piece of her hearts, that she can do better. She can do _good._ She can recapture her role as healer of the universe and never lose a single patient, because she’s not just _a_ doctor, she’s _the_ Doctor. 

The title means more to her than it ever has because it is, in a way, all she has now. The little suitcase in her hand as she stands before an open road, her only possession as she steps forward into a new world. 

Is it a new world? It feels a bit new, but the Doctor knows that it’s exactly the same. _Silly old universe, the more I save it, the more it needs saving._ An ongoing, never ending reality, but she doesn’t mind. Not now, especially not from this cell she very well may be trapped in until the end of time. She itches not only to move but to assist, to aid, to _save._

One morning she opens her eyes, arms curled around her middle and forehead pressed into the rocky floor and decides that _no_ , it isn’t the world that feels new, it’s _her._ In a weird, non-regenerative sort of way. She contains so _much._ So many multitudes and versions of herself at her disposal, an infinite supply of hope and experience she doesn’t even remember the half of. An infinite supply of _Doctor._

She can be whoever she wants to be. And she chooses to be good. 

* * *

By the time she’s rescued, she’s long since ceased ticking off the passage of time and has no current recollection of how long it’s been. She just knows she hasn’t moved in… a while. 

Her eyes don’t open until she feels a pressure on her upper arms, considerate hands tugging at her shoulders and careful voices asking her if she can sit up. Two people, there are two people in her cell besides herself. Two voices, one floaty and concerned, one deep and commanding. The hovering figures are blurred and distorted, unsharpened and entirely indistinct, but there’s a scrap of familiarity in the sheer _sense_ of their presence that lets the Doctor know she doesn’t have to be frightened. Whoever they are, she’s safe with them. 

The lower voice says something with the inflection of an order, but luckily it doesn’t seem to be directed at herself. Eyelids fluttering and drooping, the Doctor allows herself to be shifted upright. Her head falls towards her chest but someone catches it, a soft hand on her cheek saving her from a sore neck, and the Doctor furrows her brow in an attempt to sharpen the features of the face drifting in and out of her line of sight. 

“Yaz?” 

She’s not sure, she’s _really_ not sure at first, but she watches a frown morph into a smile and feels another hand come to rest on her other cheek. 

“It’s me, Doctor. Jack’s here too.” Definitely Yaz. Only Yaz speaks with such tenderness, such a soft uncertainty… wait a second. _Jack?_

“Hang in there, Doc.” Jack’s smile just barely penetrates her dulled senses. “Long time no see.” 

Her only response is a wistful hum of acknowledgement, a tiny smile gracing cracked lips as Jack hoists her into his arms. 

* * *

The Doctor wakes up three days later in the TARDIS medbay. 

It’s instantly familiar, instantly flooding her with a sense of home, even though the medical bay was always furthest from the sort. There are an awful lot of wonky memories tied up with this room, losses and almost losses, difficult conversations when someone she cares about plays a bit too loose with their own wellbeing. 

But it’s the TARDIS. Her TARDIS, her home. She’s _home,_ and her awakening is welcomed with an affectionate ping in the back of her mind that brings an easy smile to the corner of her lips. Home has never felt quite so comforting, and this bed has definitely never been quite this comfortable. 

“Doctor?” Yaz’s quiet voice prompts her to lift her head.

“Yaz.” She’s a bit slow to prop herself up on her elbows, kicking off a blanket around her knees and squinting against the already dimming lights of the medbay. Yaz is standing wide eyed in the doorway. “Hello.” 

She takes long, eager strides to the Doctor’s bedside but stops inches away. There’s a fatigued slump to her shoulders overshadowed by a spark of life in her eyes, and a breath of relief that tapers into a laugh. “You’re okay.” 

“‘Course I’m okay.” The Doctor shifts until her legs are swinging off the bed, socked feet landing with a soft thump on the floor. She spares a quick glance around for her boots to find them sitting side by side on the floor to her left. Further inspection reveals she’s wearing an entirely different shirt and trousers than she was previously, and her coat is draped over an office chair across the room. 

“Yeah, sorry.” Yaz recaptures her attention, wearing an uncertain frown and an embarrassed wince. “Sort of… made a judgement call.” 

Her senses are slow at coming to, but the next dot she connects is the fact that her hair doesn’t weigh a thick and heavy mess around her shoulders anymore. It’s neat and… washed? 

“That too.” Yaz almost looks nervous, a bit of red creeping up her neck and bathing her cheeks. “Sorry, you just looked so uncomfortable, wasn’t sure what else to do for you and—”

“—Yaz, it’s alright. Really.” The Doctor flattens the creases in her shirt and gives it a pointedly approving look. “Us Time Lords…” The title is bitter on her tongue now, tastes a bit like a lie, and she still hasn’t decided whether or not she can consider it to be one. She keeps her eyes down, and gulps away the taste. “Not really concerned with modesty. Well, not in the way humans are at least.” 

There’s a beat of silence filled to the brim with uncertainty, unspoken questions, and eventually the sound of Yaz shuffling over to sit at the Doctor’s side. 

There’s a spark in her chest not unlike electricity with Yaz so close, shoulders nearly touching, the sounds of quiet breaths mingling with one another and filling the room with something content. Like the positive ends of two magnets, the Doctor feels their souls pressing for closeness but denied it’s embrace, senses reaching out to each other, straining and yearning and _oh, what’s the word for this?_

Oh, of course. 

She missed Yaz. 

“How long?” Yaz asks with those kind eyes that she missed _so_ much. Those kind eyes that shine even when they’re sad, even when they’re scared. 

“Don’t you know?” The Doctor tilts her head curiously. 

“It’s been about two weeks for us.” Yaz speaks carefully, and the Doctor feels like she’s being analyzed. “But it’s been a lot longer for you, hasn’t it? Your hair’s longer.” She smiles, but it’s wobbly and frail. “And you just look…” 

“Older?” 

“I was gonna say tired.” Yaz doesn’t laugh, and her smile loses itself in deep concentration. “But… you do a bit. It’s your eyes, really. Like you’ve… seen a lot. Well, a lot more.” 

The Doctor doesn’t say anything, but her gaze doesn’t waver. 

“But you were stuck in that room the whole time, weren’t you?” Yaz asks in a quiet voice, fearful of itself. 

A small sigh, accepting and stabilizing. “Yeah.” 

“How long, Doctor?” 

She swallows, looking at her hands so she doesn’t have to relive her experience facing the arrows of sympathy head on. She cowers beneath them instead, the pointed ends of pity stabbing at the back of her head but never piercing her skull. “Three years. Give or take.” 

Three years. Three years of a single daily dose of nutrients (if she was lucky), a bucket of what looked and _smelled_ like mop water provided biweekly, and a chance to stretch her legs for more than five long strides, never. A chance to switch out her repeated dull visual surroundings for something even _slightly_ more colorful, never. The stars outside her window were her sanity’s saving grace, for a while. She’s not sure what to thank for salvaging it when the stars began to mock her. 

Three years. She did a lot of things in those three years. She told herself stories, made up new ones, counted every star in her line of sight and determined which corner of the universe she was in down to the star system. It didn’t help much, but at least she knew. 

Three years to miss her fam, and she never stopped missing them. Even on the days that she was so sure her mind was expiring, that this was it, _this_ was the regeneration to be slain by boredom itself — she thought about them. What they were getting up to, how their lives were progressing, how they probably thought she was dead. _Oh yeah._

“I didn’t die, by the way. On Gallifrey.” 

“You don’t say.” Finally, Yaz laughs a bit, but it’s watery and tinged. When the Doctor looks up, she sees the beginnings of unshed tears. 

“Long story.” She flattens her lips apologetically. 

“I’ll let you tell me later.” 

And the Doctor just smiles, thankful. 

Yaz shifts a bit, her own gaze falling to her hands. “So… three years? Alone?” 

Three years. Alone. 

Three years to think. She got up to a _lot_ of that. 

“It’s alright, I’m back now.” The Doctor’s attempt at an encouraging smile must fall flat, because Yaz’s quietly distraught expression is still. 

“Are _you_ alright?” 

The Doctor licks her lips, picks an uninteresting object across the room to stare at, and she thinks. She _really_ thinks about the question, because she was wondering the same thing. 

“I am.” She says it confidently, with an easy smile that sticks the landing this time. Physically, she’s _wiped._ Boredom really is a tricky oppressor; it pinned her to the spot but sapped her energy away like she’d been running nonstop. She would have much preferred to run, and she plans to do a lot of it after a couple more naps and a handful of light jogs. She’s not an idiot, she’s been physically underworked for three years, and _unnamed resilient alien entity_ or not, she’ll need to take it slow. She’ll bounce back though, she always does.

Mentally, despite it all, she’s soaring. Maybe a bit too fast, there are still lots of dots to be connected and thoughts to be strung, but she’s alright. She knows who she is, and knows her place both within the universe and outside of it. 

She’s the Doctor, and she _will_ be good. 

“I’m alright, Yaz.” She repeats sincerely, hearts singing a song she can’t place.

Yaz’s shoulder touches her own, and her deprived senses struggling to wake up suddenly blaze to life, all of them centered, all of them focused. 

“How does a hug sound after three years alone?” 

The Doctor chuckles quietly, and finds herself already swaying in Yaz’s direction. “Amazing.” 

Yaz’s arms mould around her back and the Doctor leans against her, arms finding solace against her shoulder blades, and lets out a long breath. She was funny about touch for a bit, never really had enough opportunities to decide if she liked it or not, but three years without the option had something to say about that. 

Yaz sits with her like that for a couple minutes. It’s quiet, it’s easy, and it’s grounding. The scattered pieces of the Doctor’s exhausted subconscious knit together more easily, flow with something closer to coherence, and she’s soon pulling away. 

“Where are Graham and Ryan?” 

“Home.” Yaz settles her hands back in her lap. “Jack said it’d be quicker just the two of us.”

Jack?

“Jack!” The Doctor smacks her palm into her forehead. “Stupid Doctor, you forgot about Jack!” She whirls on Yaz then with an intensity that visibly catches her off guard. “Where is he? How’d you find him?” 

“He found us.” Yaz is quick to clarify, and her eyes brighten like she’s been eager to share the information. “Said he’d heard from someone who heard from someone who heard from someone _else,_ ” She pauses for a breath. “That the Judoon had you in maximum security. Graham and Ryan didn’t believe it at first — suppose that’s why he chose me to come along.” 

The Doctor’s spiralling thoughts halt in their tracks and she finds herself smiling, then bumps Yaz’s shoulder with her own. “But _you_ believed him.” 

“I’ve spent the past two weeks coming up with impossible ways you could have survived.” Yaz binks a couple times, like she’s perplexed she even has to say it. “Of _course_ I believed him.”

The Doctor’s lips part to respond, but she’s not sure what to say to that. She dips her head in understanding instead. _Fair enough._

“Oh, and he’s in the console room.” Yaz adds after a beat. “Haven’t had the chance to tell him you’re awake yet.” 

“I need to talk to him.” She presses her palms into the edge of the bed, channeling and focusing all her energy into her current excuse for legs. They buckle and wobble like a baby deer as soon as she moves to stand, but Yaz is a sturdy presence at her shoulder, steadying and stable. The Doctor gratefully takes hold of her arm. “Grab my coat for me?” 

Yaz breaks away for long enough to retrieve her coat and hand it over. It’s clean, clearly washed, and smells like that same cosmic detergent the TARDIS has used for years instead of dirt and sweat. As soon as she slips her arms into her sleeves, she feels remarkably more like herself. 

She’s a bit more stable after that, stumbling towards the medbay exit but refraining from waving away Yaz’s worried dithering, accepting the steadying hand on her arm for what it is. She’s never keen on assistance, but this is Yaz. Yaz doesn’t judge her, Yaz doesn’t gain a weakened perspective from seeing the Doctor anything but strong, Yaz simply cares too much to stand idle. It’s an admirable trait, and the Doctor won’t be the one to dampen it. 

When they reach the entrance to the console room that dims its lights automatically upon her arrival, the Doctor pauses. “You mind giving us a minute?” 

“‘Course not.” Yaz lets go of her arm with an understanding tilt of her head. “I’ll be in the kitchen, gonna give Ryan a call and let them know you’re alright.” 

“Thanks, Yaz.” She smiles slightly and watches her go, turning back towards the console room with loosely clenched fists. 

She thought she’d be nervous to see him. Last time Jack made an appearance it was one of warning, an attempt to steer her in a direction that would result in the best case scenario of the universe’s sour fate. He made a strong, educated suggestion that she ignored. He’s bound to be at least a little bit peeved. 

But when she descends the stairs to the console room, a hand holding herself steady against the railing, she feels little besides glee at the sight of him. He’s fiddling with something on the console — she _dreads_ to think what — braced in a contemplative, bowed over stance and brow pinched in deep concentration. It’s very Doctor-y, she thinks. Jack’s coatless ensemble fits the vibe of the console room perfectly as ever.

“Well, good morning Sleeping _Beauty!_ ” He lights up when he notices her, that cheesy, goofy smile spreading across his face and crinkling the space around his eyes. “I was wondering why it got dark in here.” 

“Eyes are a bit sensitive. It’s just the TARDIS being considerate.” Boots forgotten, she pads softly across the console room with arms crossed loosely over her chest. “What’re you doin’?”

“Monitoring Judoon communications. They know you’re missing but haven’t been able to track you. Just the way we like it.” He flicks a switch on the console and the lively monitor powers down. “Well?” 

The Doctor tilts her head. “Well what?” 

“I just rescued you from a maximum security prison. Maximum security _Judoon_ prison. Had to jump through a lot of hoops and snog a guard to get you out of there -- a thank you or something would be nice.” 

“You snogged a _Judoon?_ ” 

“They’re not as bad at it as you’d think.” Jack crosses his arms and leans back against the console with that familiar sly smirk. “Got the job done, didn’t it?” 

“Couple years late, but who’s counting?” 

Jack grimaces then, arms falling back to his sides. “Sorry about that.” 

“It’s alright.” She knows how time travel can be, knows how easy it is to over and undershoot if even a single coordinate is misplaced or a fragment is out of position. “But I have to say it — that’s what you get for using cheap time travel.” 

“Hey, last I checked my ride was _way_ more accurate than yours.” He jabs his index finger in her direction. “Still waiting on that thank you.”

“Thank you, Jack.” She says it sincerely, because she really does owe it to him for her freedom from claustrophobia and darkness that no longer looms over her like a murderous shadow. “Really.” 

“Any time.” He brightens, smiling knowingly. “I mean it.” 

And then there’s a pause. Thick and expectant, a mutual waiting game, unmoving gazes fixed strictly on one another. 

“Go on, out with it.” The Doctor leans back into the console at his side. 

Jack mulls over the demand, and seems to struggle over the right way to say it. There is no right way. “You gave the Cyberman what it wanted.” 

“I made a judgement call.” The Doctor combats, echoing Yaz’s earlier words, but she doesn’t feel that stir of fight or flight in her chest she often does during intimate confrontation. “It was a sticky situation, Jack. There were no options that weren’t bad ones.” 

“You realize you could have stopped the war before it even started, right?” 

“Not if in doing so I erased two hundred years of vital history.” She hardens, a faint surge of anxiety reaching her fingers and curling them around the console’s edge. “It was the only way — the only _shot_ I had at keeping the universe safe. In all it’s time periods.” 

“A lot of people died, you know.” He says it with a slight bite, like he’s been waiting a long time for the opportunity. She doesn’t blame him for being upset with her, but if anyone should have some semblance of understanding for her controversial actions, it’s him. 

“I know.” She says levelly. 

“I had friends that fought in that war.” He points his haunted gaze forward, away from her. “And they all died, because it was a _Cyber_ war, and there was never gonna be any other ending.”

The Doctor doesn’t take that lightly, spares a moment to let the information sink in. “Did you?” 

“What, fight or die?” 

“Both.”

Jack shoves his hands into his front pockets, shifting against the console and crossing his feet at the ankles. “Yeah, I did. Quite a few times.” 

She knows that dying never becomes any less traumatic for him, no matter how many times it occurs, and to be left to watch your comrades helplessly succumb to the forces of a seemingly preventable war is a whole other story.

“Do you blame me?” She asks it like a question that must never be asked, hesitant and quiet and sour near the back of her tongue. 

Jack seems to think it over for a moment, thoughtful gaze falling to his boots. “Should I?” 

Should he? Should _she_ ? She didn’t have any other choice, did she? There are some points in time which she simply cannot see, that are entirely inaccessible due to blocked pathways or hidden entrances. She didn’t _know_ what would happen if she didn’t give the lone Cyberman the Cyberium. Maybe Ashad was bluffing when he said he’d destroy the earth, or maybe earth’s timeline really would have ended in 1817. 

She did her best, right? But her best wasn’t good enough — _she was never good enough_ , and she plans to make some regarding changes. She doesn’t _have_ to repeat history, each mistake is a mistake to be learned from, after all, and she’s made a lot of them. Shouldn’t she have learned everything by now?

“Maybe you should.” She half decides, still a bit stuck on the question, but she can come back to it later. She’s fairly certain now, that given the opportunity, she could have come up with a better solution. One that would have saved _everyone --_ Shelley, 1817 earth, and every life the Cybermen stripped away after the decision she made. The _wrong_ decision, she concludes. She told herself that any decision would be the wrong one, in that position, but maybe it was just her being slow, or being incapable. She’s not incapable, she’s _the Doctor,_ she was the universe’s only chance, and while she succeeded in the end, the false starts leading up to her victory were at a cost. She could have done better. 

It’s so lonely in the stratosphere, perched on top of the tallest mountain in the universe, left to make every impossible decision alone. But she is -- she _really_ is the only person fit for the job, and she’s always had a decent work ethic. It’s time to do more. It’s time to do better. 

Jack suddenly springs up off the console, putting his back to the heavy conversation and switching the monitor on for one final check before switching it back off. “We’re in orbit around earth, by the way. Figured it was a safe enough spot while you napped.” 

“I wasn’t _napping,_ I was recovering.” She bucks up, lifting herself off the console as well, and Jack flashes her an amused look. 

“Call it what you want.” His hands return to his pockets after adjusting the suspender straps at his shoulders. “But it looks like you could use another.” 

“I’ll be a bit wonky for a bit, it’s alright.” She slips around into position on the other side of the console. “Might see if Graham’s sofa is up for a temporary resident.” 

As Jack opens his mouth to respond, Yaz sounds her return with quick feet hurrying down the stairs and her mobile phone’s microphone pressed against her shoulder. 

“Doctor, Graham says if you’re not in his front room in two minutes you’re gettin’ an earful.” She says it with half a grin, equally amused as it is nervous. “He and Ryan are a bit offended you haven’t been to see them already. I know you’ve got a time machine but I _really_ wouldn’t risk it.” 

The Doctor can’t help a tired chuckle at that, hands gliding over the controls with practiced ease unhindered by three years deprived of the experience. “Well, lets not keep them waiting any longer.” 

* * *

  
  


That _temporary residence_ on Graham’s sofa ends up being a week long. 

Four days were spent kicking back with the fam, tolerating their fussing for a couple of them but putting her foot down on the third. She was _fine,_ and she’d keep telling them that, after answering all the questions they knew she didn’t want them to ask but couldn’t keep from spilling out. _What was it like? Were you scared? Weren’t you bored?_ So bored, _so_ bored. She tried her best to make light of every hardship, stick a quick joke on the end whenever something she said made all three of them plain _sad,_ and it worked approximately half the time. She made them laugh a lot, but sometimes she just couldn’t. Sometimes the weight was a bit too much for them; thinking they’d lost her for two weeks only to discover her devastating _three years_ in solitary confinement. They danced around her for those first few days in uncertainty, like the wrong word or a misstep could snatch her away from them once again. It never did, even when Ryan danced right on her toe, and it _really_ hurt. 

Two days were spent fending off a Dalek invasion, and that was when the fam finally seemed to relax, oddly enough. She proved herself capable, proved herself to be _fine_ by keeping everyone — and she can say that with certainty — _everyone_ alive. The Dalek fleet found themselves trapped in orbit for those two days, stuck banging at Earth’s doors, never granted entry. They were a primitive fleet, technologically unadvanced in comparison to their much more inevitable successors. Terrible defenses, and an even worse sense of humor when she put an ionic membrane around the entire planet. That shouldn’t be possible with a Dalek, let alone constructing a field of that size sturdy enough to keep _anything_ out, but they never did manage to break through. She was fairly certain she owed that mostly to whatever force sent a shoddy fleet from the beginning of its time — it really was a _Level 1_ as far as difficulties go — but the Doctor defeated the Daleks without a single life lost. A victory of the sorts would go to anyone’s head, and it definitely goes to hers. 

The final day is spent saying goodbye. 

“Hey Doc, mind if Ryan and I talk to you for a second?” 

She’s taking her last swig of tea when Graham appears in the doorway between the kitchen and the front room, wearing a smile on his lips but a clear ache in his eyes. Something’s up. 

“‘Course.” She tilts her cup upside-down to down the last drops, wiping her mouth on her coat sleeve as she pushes her chair away from the kitchen table and stands. “Everything alright?” 

“Yeah, just —” His gaze falls away from hers for an instant, eventually settling for cocking his head in the direction of the sofa. 

The Doctor follows him with a nervous energy vibrating her bones, scratching her palms with chewed fingernails when she sees Ryan perched uncomfortably on the edge of Graham’s armchair. He looks about as anxious as she feels, not meeting her eye when she walks in, and _seriously…_ what’s _so_ bad that—

“ _Ouch._ ” Graham stumbles over a discarded piece of an unfinished contraption she left unattended, knocking his knee on the coffee table in consequence. 

She sort of… set up camp in his front room. The Doctor arrived seven days ago with a shy smile to a followed-through promise of an earful when she arrived five minutes later than ordered. Graham was spilling out a readied reprimand before he’d even opened his front door, griping and moaning about how she’d just _“-left us to think you were dead, Doc, for two weeks. Two weeks! That’s really bloody rude, you know that? I think you do know that, and I expect an explanation,_ then _an apology, then — blimey, come here.”_ Then he hugged her, so urgently, so confidently. Very unlike him. He pulled away before she could even physically react, left tense and mentally overstimulated, staring at Ryan over Graham’s shoulder for some sort of guidance. He was no help though, slack jawed and similarly stunned for entirely different reasons. 

She was constantly back and forth between their flat and the TARDIS, finding it much easier to be productive with the supplies of her ship in arm’s reach but much harder to focus any time she was alone. As calming as the TARDIS can be, she much preferred Ryan and Graham’s company over her own solitude, and Yaz’s on the frequent occasion she stayed over. Yaz spent most of her time with the three of them that week, and any questions regarding how the police station felt about the time off were quickly diverted. 

“Sorry.” The Doctor wrinkles her nose, kicking the offending item off to the side where it can’t do any more damage. “I’ll have all this picked up by the time Yaz gets back. Anywhere in particular you’d like to go? You lot can take turns picking — or — _oh,_ we could go to 43rd century Thobos. Ryan, you in particular would love that one. Biggest and most advanced arcade grounds in the universe, takes up almost the _entire_ planet, and — you lot have virtual reality by now, don’t you? Bit like that, but also not like that ‘cause it’s about twenty times cooler. Free roaming, high definition quality that’s somehow _more_ realistic than actual reality and—”

She stops herself, or rather the look on Ryan’s face does. He doesn’t look excited, or even _interested,_ really, and she knows him better than to believe that he’s truly not. 

“What?” 

He and Graham share a look, and whatever’s about to be laid out on the table has evidently already been discussed behind closed doors. 

“That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about.” Graham eases onto the sofa, and the Doctor follows suit when he cocks his head towards the empty space next to him. 

“You know how I told you I’m trying to go to Sheffield College?” Ryan bends forward with elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on his hands that twist together with unease. 

“Oh, you can do better than that, Ryan.” She smiles easily. “I’m sure I can lend you a hand. Earth’s concept of engineering is remarkably basic, only the fundamentals — ooh, I could teach you how to hotwire a space hopper. Sheffield College won’t cover that, I’m _fairly_ certain.” 

There’s a small stretch of silence that leaves her with the impression she’s said the wrong thing. 

“Thing is, Doc,” Graham sighs quietly. “Ryan’s really wanted this for… a while, actually.” 

“And I think I’ve got a good shot at getting in.” Ryan lifts his head, hope lightening his features. “And I know I’d be good at it.” 

Oh. She sees where this is going now. 

Graham looks at Ryan with a small nod, encouraging and prompting, and Ryan lets out a heavy breath. 

“I love traveling with you lot. _Loved —_ traveling with you lot. But after a while I sort of… stopped feeling like I belong out there.” 

The Doctor blinks her confusion, tilting her head and listening intently. She doesn’t quite understand. 

“I’ve got this mate. Tibo. Dunno if you remember meeting him.” Ryan sits up a little straighter. “He doesn’t do well on his own. Needs friends around at least once in a while to keep him afloat because his brain just… _hates_ him. None of the other guys seem to really get it, and that’s all the more reason that I just…” His gaze falters again. “Feel like this is where I’m needed. Like _this_ is my place in the universe, not out there. Even if an arcade planet sounds _really_ fun.” 

Her nod is slight, slowed by the beginnings of grief, but she respects that self-appointed duty more than she knows how to convey. 

“Plus,” Graham adds, regret coating his voice. “I’m not exactly getting any younger.” 

“And whenever Ryan goes,” The Doctor forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You go.” 

“Yeah.” Graham returns her smile with one equally weighted, apologetic and impossibly sad. 

“That’s alright.” She nods again, just to seal her words. That’s alright, that’s respectable, she gets it — she really does. Any family she forms across the universe is always gonna be short lived, but she grew especially attached to this one. Somehow more so after all the time they spent apart. Absence makes the hearts grow fonder, after all. 

She’s gonna miss them. 

“And it’s not like this is gonna be some _goodbye forever_ nonsense.” Ryan recaptures her attention, holding her eye steadily to make sure she’s listening to every word. “We still want you to come ‘round, and maybe — _maybe,_ just every now and then we’ll come along for a quick trip.” 

This isn’t goodbye forever _._ She’ll see them again.

The Doctor smiles again, a bit lighter this time, a bit more genuine. “So I can take you to 43rd century Thobos someday?” 

“You’d better.” A pleased grin stretches across Ryan’s face and his shoulders lose their tension. 

An unidentifiable boulder of dread suddenly plummets heavy in the pit of her stomach, widening her eyes, straightening her spine. “What about—”

“—I’m back!” The front door clicks open to an exasperated looking Yaz, overnight bag slung over her shoulder. “Sorry, Sonya was nagging me about dinner. Mum and dad are out of town and she likes to pretend she doesn’t know how to cook…” Once she’s stepped into the inside atmosphere fully, closing the door behind her in slow motion, Yaz’s carefree expression quickly slips to match the tension. “Did you tell her?” 

So Yaz knew already. Have they been discussing this all week?

“Yeah, we did.” Graham grins something reassuring, and only slightly pinched with the tail end of the conversation. 

Yaz finds the Doctor’s eye, inquisitive and analytical. “You okay?” 

“‘Course I am.” The Doctor lifts her chin a fraction, just to seal her statement. “Ryan explained everything, but...” And she trails off, because she’s actually not quite sure she’s okay — it depends… it depends on…

“Do you still want me to come with you?” Yaz splutters, at the _exact_ same instant the Doctor spills, _“Do you still want to come with me?”_

They both gape at each other in a similar form of awe, mouths hanging open and beseeching gazes entangling, frozen. 

“Of course.” They both say, once again, at the same time, and matching huffs of immeasurable relief are not far behind. 

Yaz is coming with her, and the boys will always be here when she comes back. The Doctor relaxes to the point where her shoulders sag with the weight of it, and she spares herself a nanosecond of reassurance. _She won’t be alone._

“Suppose I should clear up.” The Doctor stands from the sofa, already bustling around the front room and scooping up scattered supplies and failed experiments. “Yaz, you ready to go?” 

“Definitely. Here—” She drops her bag in a corner and steps forward. “Me and Ryan can help.” 

“Actually,” Graham lifts a finger. “Can you two give me and the Doc a moment?”

 _What now?_ The Doctor dumps her armful in Ryan’s outstretched hands, hovering her own nearby and wiggling her fingers. “Careful with that, Ryan, don’t touch the wirey bits.” 

He shoots her a nervous look and nods his strict understanding, and soon he and Yaz are striding out of the flat and towards the TARDIS with the Doctor’s mess of equipment piled high in their arms. 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, the Doctor sits back down. “What’s up?” 

Shallow lines of concern crease Graham’s brow, and he narrows his eyes as if to see through her own. “You alright, love?” 

She can’t suppress a short, frustrated sigh. “You lot keep asking that.” 

“I know you’re _technically_ alright.” His hands fall to his lap. “You’re still you, and all. Strong as ever. No stupid alien prison is gonna be the thing to cause your downfall, I know that.” 

The Doctor blinks, and waits, because what’s the big deal then? 

“But you also don’t know how to sit still longer than a couple minutes, and you were locked in the same room on the same asteroid for over a thousand days.” He’s frowning now. “And you’ve seemed a bit off since you got out. Can’t put my finger on it, but…” He trails off with a slow exhale, and the Doctor looks away. “Just want to make sure your head’s gonna be alright after all that.” 

“I’m fine, Graham. Really. Time doesn’t pass the same for my lot.” 

“Yeah, I know. It passes a lot slower.” He hardens a fraction. “Which is why I’m worried.” 

“You don’t need to be.” She’s fine. She’s more than fine, she’s _excited._ To get back out amongst the stars, to prove herself _to_ herself by rooting around for the right decisions until she can reach them. They’re out there, she knows they’re out there, she just has to be good enough to find them. 

Graham doesn’t appear any less skeptical, but he lets the topic slide with a shallow dip of his head. When the Doctor goes to stand, Graham holds out his hand. “One more thing.” 

She sits back down, only a little bit impatient, but Graham’s adopted a much softer tone that she doesn’t feel the need to escape. 

“Just… want to say thank you, I suppose.” He begins sincerely, just a little bit sad. “After Grace died, without all the travelling I would’ve been in a right state. And I know I told you this ages back, but just so you know, Doc, you really did me a lot of good. Travelling the universe really should be a worldwide method of grief counselling. I’d vouch for it.” 

The Doctor replaces the blank space a reply should occupy with a soft laugh. She doesn’t know what to say. 

“Ryan, too.” He goes on. “Not much of a sap, that lad, so I doubt you’ll ever hear this from him directly, but you helped him find his place.” The Doctor lifts her gaze to meet his, and Graham’s eyes are shining. “He seemed a bit lost when I first met him. His mum dying and dad ducking out really left him… troubled. He was never completely happy, struggled a lot in school, never really opened up to me or his nan about anything. But he’s changed a lot, since we met you. _You,_ Doc, not just the travelling, made him more confident, more certain — helped him realize that he _does,_ actually, have a place in the world. And I’ll personally be eternally grateful for that. He’s a lot better off, after knowing you. We all are.” 

A bow of fondness glides over the strings of her aching hearts, making them sing. 

Graham and Ryan get a happy ending. Her friends so rarely end up with one of those. 

“Thank you for telling me that.” She whispers, eyes stinging and throat constricting. If she says anymore she just might burst at the seams, so the Doctor holds her tongue, and Graham very briefly wraps an arm around her shoulders in a side hug. He gives her a fond pat on the back that she doesn’t shrink away from, then stands from the sofa as soon as Ryan and Yaz return. 

“Think that’s everything.” If Yaz senses any additional shift in the atmosphere, she doesn’t say anything, scooping up her bag with one hand and a left behind coil of glowing cables in the other. “You ready to go?” 

The Doctor sniffs once, braces her palms against her knees and rises confidently. “Sure am.” 

They say their goodbyes, short and bittersweet. Graham gets a hug, Ryan gets a slightly longer one, then Yaz steps into position to do the same. 

The Doctor pats down her pockets to make sure she’s not leaving anything else behind before turning towards the door, her and Yaz side by side, an open road of new and good and _better_ beckoning them onward. 

“You look after her.” She hears Graham say from behind her, and turns around to shoot him a reassuring eye. 

“Always.” 

“I was talking to Yaz, actually.” 

Yaz turns around, visibly pleased, smiling broadly. “Always.” 

The Doctor rolls her eyes but doesn’t comment, holding the front door open for Yaz to step through and closing it with a quiet click behind them. 

She takes a deep breath of sunlight and freshly cut grass, and barely there, unseen and looked over by everyone, is a flicker of something remarkably fierce in her eyes. Dangerous, almost, if she were still the type of person to let something of the sort consume her.

She won’t be dangerous. She won’t be frightening. She won’t be _frightened._

She’ll be good. She’ll _do_ good. 

She’ll do better than ever before. 


	2. Secunda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right so here's the tea: I'm not great at side characters, but I'm LEARNING!! I've so rarely written anyone besides the fam that it's a serious challenge trying to develop an OC in such a small amount of time, but writing this fic has been really good practice for that because there are (cough) a lot of side characters that I highly recommend - spoiler alert - not getting attached to. Which shouldn't be hard lmao 
> 
> Each side character is important to the full impact of what I've got up my sleeve here, so bear with me!

“Theme parks.” 

“What?” 

“The future has theme parks.” The Doctor’s hands dance about the controls with the fluidity of a puppetmaster, every lever and switch sounding its obedience with a click or a hum. 

“Well, I’d hope it would.” Yaz says slowly, skepticism swirling around in narrowed eyes like she’s waiting for the Doctor to get to the point. 

“The future has  _ brilliant  _ theme parks. What was your favorite story as a kid, Yaz?” 

Her brow pinches thoughtfully before she lifts her head with an ecstatic mile. “Alice in Wonderland. Read it half a dozen times before I’d turned twelve.”

Before she’s even finished speaking the Doctor’s face is twisting apologetically. “Sorry, not that one. Had to shut it down when I discovered they were genetically engineering a whole mess of Chesire Cats. Morally not cool _ ,  _ but besides that, the little beasts were  _ horrifying. _ ” She shudders. “Stuck them on their own planet so they can be creepy in peace, but the park is history.” 

“Alright...” Yaz frowns, trying not to let the near-articulate image of real-life Cheshire Cats in her head form entirely. “Is there a Tolkein park?” 

“Oh, there’s a park for every story ever told _ ,  _ Yaz, I guarantee it.” But the suggestion has been clearly accepted, the Doctor’s eyes sparking with excited energy and fingers tapping out the coordinates before curling around a lever. “But  _ Lord of the Rings _ it is.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The Doctor opens her eyes to a faceful of soil that reeks of psychic energy and someone else’s curiosity. 

It’s in her nose, clings to her eyelashes as they flutter, and she lifts a groggy hand to claw it off her tongue. Of course she was asleep with her mouth hanging open, drooling like a child, and — hang on — she doesn’t typically make an  _ intentional  _ habit of falling asleep in the dirt. Is the TARDIS in a fussy mood?

She rolls slowly onto her back, spitting bits of soil into the ground at her side, and catches sight of Yaz who’s only just beginning to stir awake. The Doctor spares the instant it takes to give her and Yaz a quick once-over before she pushes herself upright with one hand, kneads lazily at her eyes with the back of the other. 

The air is parched and uncomfortably dry at the back of her tongue when she inhales. She looks over her shoulder first — best to always check your back when waking up in unfamiliar territory — and it’s remarkably unhelpful, the territory. Bland and beige, all dust and dirt and half-dead grass, stocky homes built of rotting, bowed wood and unhelpfully tattered rooftops. They form a circle, she notices, dotting the edges of the minuscule civilization with crafted precision like the  _ O  _ in a castaway’s  _ S.O.S.  _

The Doctor’s gaze tracks the curve, groggily and curiously until she’s facing forward, and her eyes land on an audience. A dithering bunch of seven or so humanoids all keeping a safe distance, non-threatening at a first glance, but it doesn’t appear that they can say the same about the new arrivals. 

“That wasn’t a regular teleport.” A voice masked with hostility pipes from the midst of the small crowd, its source unseen until it makes its way to the front. 

The woman is short in stature, a handful of inches beneath the Doctor and Yaz if they were standing, and similar to her associates she dawns a dusty, worn attire. Hers is a dull red, tattered and frayed at the ends, while others are similarly monotonous but somewhat less aged. 

“Uh…” The Doctor’s brain hasn’t quite caught up yet, and instead of rooting around for an answer she gives Yaz a gentle nudge with her fist. “Yaz, wakey wakey.” 

Yaz furrows her brow as she slowly sits up, blinking and squinting as her eyes adjust to the otherwise easy hue beading down on the surrounding terrain. It seems to take her a moment to realize that she’s not, in fact, waking up from an average impromptu nap, and when she manages to focus on her surroundings the lines at her forehead deepen. 

“Don’t think I read this book.” She mutters before her gaze settles uneasily on their company. “Oh, hello.” 

“Who are you?” The woman demands, with a tone that isn’t  _ strictly  _ hostile. There’s a flicker of hope there, a clear wanting to trust the new arrivals, and the Doctor leans into it, quickly climbing to her feet and extending a hand for Yaz to do the same. 

“I’m the Doctor,” She says calmly, featuring her friendliest smile and her kindest eyes. “And this is Yaz. Wouldn’t mind filling us in a bit, would you?” She scratches her head, casts a glance around, and makes sure her innocent confusion is as apparent as it is factual. 

She really, truly, hasn’t got a clue where they are. Hasn’t made it any further than  _ quaint little village,  _ if  _ quaint  _ is the right word. It’s a fairly rural domain, undecorated, primitive and baseline upon first inspection but she knows — she  _ smells,  _ actually, that it isn’t. 

“You… don’t know how you got here?” The woman’s guard visibly lowers though she’s still rooted in place, and the curious-eyed bunch behind her seems to relax right along with her. 

“Benja, we can’t trust anyone from the outside.” A man steps to the front line before the Doctor can respond, poised with trepidation and a careful eye that flickers her way. “They don’t look the sort, but…” 

“They don’t.” The woman —  _ Benja —  _ agrees with a barely perceptible dip of her head, gaze fixed and unmoving and approaching the brink of faith. “I’ll take care of them. You lot go inside.”

“But — ”

“ _ Go inside. _ ” A harsher tone, though more scolding than scalding. “I said I’ll take care of them.”

Her adamance hangs in the air for a testing beat before the crowd, slowly and with several glances over shoulders, return to their homes. The man near the front dithers for an instant longer but soon stands down.

Yaz casts the Doctor a bemused, narrow-eyed look that she can only shrug in response to, darting her attention back to the woman when she speaks up again. 

“So you’re…  _ not  _ with the Kakovis.” Benja clarifies, slowly and skeptically, eyeing the Doctor head to toe before doing the same to Yaz. “You’re here by accident.” 

“We end up most places by accident,” Yaz notes. 

“The Kakovis?” The Doctor tilts her head, slowly curling one fist with a tight surge of curious energy,  _ really  _ trying not to bombard their skittish host.

The shallow lines of doubt etched into the woman’s brow have begun to ease, the stiffness to her shoulders subsiding as consternation makes room for certitude. She doesn’t speak again on the aforementioned, but the Doctor stores the word  _ Kakovis  _ near the forefront of her mind so she doesn’t forget to ask about it later. 

“What planet is this?” Yaz asks. One of them probably should have asked that much sooner. 

“This is  _ Secunda,  _ but it’s not a planet. More of a station.” 

“Space station?” The Doctor wrinkles her brow — that can’t be right. She looks skyward to eye the cloudless dusky blue, then to the firm earth beneath her feet to give it an experimental stomp. “You sure about that?” 

“It sure does look like a planet.” Yaz adds, a bit skeptical, but Benja is already shaking her head. 

“It’s massive, yes, but entirely artificial. Built from advanced natural components with self terraforming capabilities, so yes, it  _ looks  _ like a planet.”

“Right. Lots of questions, bear with me.” The Doctor runs a hand through her hair and flicks consequential flakes of soil from her fingertips. “So this is just a regular civilization, yeah? You run out of space back home and have to build yourself a new one?”

After a considerate beat Benja lets out a short, decisive sigh, then gives a pointed look to a small house resting between a lamp post and a wilting tree. “I should probably let you know what you’re in for since,  _ somehow, _ ” there’s a final flash of skepticism as she walks past the travelers, indicating they follow with a wave of her hand. “You don’t know. Because now that you’re here, you’re stuck.” 

Yaz goes wide-eyed, but the Doctor shakes her head calmly. 

“For a while at least.” Benja finishes, to which Yaz relaxes considerably. 

Benja’s home is simple and compact, a living area adjoining a kitchen of small scale bathed in a calm yellow hue from a standing lamp in the corner. The inside is almost equally as dusty as the outside, and when the Doctor makes herself at home on a cracked beige sofa a plume of dust puffs from the cushions in her wake. 

Yaz eases herself down onto the edge with a bit more caution, a displeased wince creasing her brow that then lifts into a polite smile when Benja moves to stand in front of them, bending over to scoop an armful of leaflets from the center table to clear a space and hurrying off to dump it in the kitchen. 

Yaz takes advantage of the opportunity, leaning in close to the Doctor’s ear. “How’d we end up here?” She hisses, eyes darting around the messy front room in wonder. Stacks of books filling every corner, a collection of scribbled papers of unknown data strung across almost every available surface. “And why don’t we remember?” 

“Both very good questions.” The Doctor leans against the back cushions unbothered, curiosity buzzing through her veins. “Maybe the answers will be too.” 

“Or maybe they won’t.” Yaz leans back as well, folding her arms comfortably across her chest. “Our host,” she cocks her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Doesn’t seem very at ease, which  _ usually  _ means we shouldn’t be either.” 

Benja reappears with three cups of tea balanced between both hands, setting them in the center of the table as she lowers herself to the floor behind it. She’s clearly come around to the idea of their company, trusting enough to be on cuppa terms, at least. 

The Doctor waits for her to speak first, patient and thoughtful as she takes in the woman’s physical appearance properly. She's young — can’t be much older than Yaz, but there’s something heartbreaking in her eyes that points in the direction of an impossibly trying past. She looks haunted, definitely fearful, but in a way that’s aged and accustomed. What has she seen? Or  _ done?  _

“So who are you exactly?” Benja folds her legs and rests one elbow on the table to fidget with the handle on her teacup. 

“Theme park enthusiasts,” The Doctor raises her cup to her lips but stops as the steam hits her nose, filling her senses with a foul scent that she grimaces in response to before setting the offending drink aside, forgotten. “Who lend a helping hand on the weekends. What is this place, Benja? What can you tell us?” 

Benja only stares at her drink instead of sipping it, lifting her eyes to the Doctor’s with a sturdy exhale. “ _ Secunda  _ is a refugee station built to withstand the technology of the Kakovis. We’re constantly on the move, so they can’t find us — well,  _ couldn’t  _ find us.” Her gaze drops away. “And we were told the atmosphere is impenetrable, specifically designed with their forces in mind, but…” 

“So they’ve found you now, you’re saying?” Yaz folds her arms loosely, interest piqued and ringing in the higher pitch of her voice. “Why do you need to hide from them?” 

Benja still won’t meet their eyes, fingers curling tight around the handle on her mug. 

“I’m good at reading people. Usually.” She begins. “And you two don’t seem the sort that would stack up against us, but… if you meant what you said about a  _ helping hand,  _ I’d really appreciate it if you hear me out completely before getting the wrong impression.” 

Yaz tilts her head thoughtfully and the Doctor nods eagerly, leaning forward with elbows perched on her knees. 

“The Kakovis are born and bred bounty hunters.” She swirls the liquid around in her cup, eyes following the movement. “Once upon a time they were a faction of the Shadow Proclamation. Actually, legend says the Shadow Proclamation were the ones to create them in the first place for the more unpredictable intergalactic... criminals. The sort that you kill on sight instead of sticking in a cage.” 

“Hold on…” Yaz sits up a little straighter, a tinge of wariness layering over curiosity. “So the people who live here are… criminals?” 

“Were.  _ Were  _ criminals. Listen, everyone here…” Benja trails off again, meeting inquisitive gazes with bright blue eyes begging for understanding, begging for a way out. “...has a very complicated past. Yes, we’ve done bad things.” She falters again. “And some of us have done horrible things — but nobody stands by it. Some people here were raised to do what they did, some didn’t know any better, some didn’t have a choice. But now,” A quiet sigh, fatigued and relenting. “We all just want peace. We’re all trying to forget the people we once were.”

Well, the Doctor can certainly understand that. It’s a feeling she’s familiar with, a need she’s accustomed to — to move on, to move past. To come out on the other end of your mistakes better than you were before, and she gives Benja a slow, deeply empathic nod, riveted with every word she says.

“Do you have any family with you, Benja?” 

“Lost them ages ago. Been here five years myself and I’ve never even gone far out from the village, because they’re a bit like a family here. I look after them the best I can.” 

The Doctor nods shortly, the corner of her lips twitching with a possibly ill-timed smile. She has half a mind to ask what Benja  _ did _ to land herself as a refugee, but the whole point of this place is, after all, that a question of the sort is irrelevant. “How did the Kakovis find you?” 

Benja shrugs, loose and at a loss. “We don’t know. The control center has been transmitting updates since the first breach last week, but it’s been quiet since yesterday.” 

“Breach?” Yaz clarifies. 

“ _ Secunda  _ was built to be impenetrable.” Benja takes the first silent sip of her tea. “But there are cracks in the teleport barrier in various sections of the station. They’re only slivers, few and far between at the moment, but every day there’s more… and things have been squeezing through.” 

The Doctor lifts her brow at that, leaning forward with an eager eye. “What sort of things?” 

“Reports say it varies — soldiers, unmanned explosives, or their…  _ pets. _ The Kakovis utilize the abilities of some of the most dangerous creatures across the universe or enforce those abilities on the innocent ones. Resourceful, to say the least.” 

“Good to know.” The Doctor hums. “Any examples?” 

“There was a Krafayis in Sector Three, a flesh moth invasion in Seven. That was yesterday, the flesh moths. Haven’t heard anything since.” 

Yaz wrinkles her nose in disgust. “ _ Flesh moth _ invasion? Dunno what a Krafayis is, but that’s terrifying.”

“It is, yeah.” Benja rubs her cheek, tired as she speaks, half-hearted when she continues. “But what’s a soldier without fear.” 

“Is that what you are, then? A solider?” The Doctor asks, not unkindly. She can work with a soldier as long as she’s given a fair warning. 

The refugee seems to consider this, if only for an instant. “No,” she decides, “Not anymore. I’m just trying to do what I can for the people around me, but you seem the type.” 

The Doctor bites her tongue.  _ Which type? _

“Do you have the… power?” Benja frowns at the word. “Or… I don’t know, the actual  _ ability  _ to do something?” She swallows audibly. “Because now that they’ve found us it’s only a matter of time. They could throw just about anything at us through those cracks at any given moment and they won’t give up now that they’ve started. Their perseverance is the deadliest part about them, so I might be asking for a miracle here,” she trails off, eyes rounding with a dare to hope. “But who are you, really? Don’t strike me as park hoppers.” 

The Doctor blinks once, twice, and can’t settle on an answer. Hope? That’s what she’d normally say, but she can do better than that, surely. Hope is vital, hope can be a lifeline, but it’s not a promise. Never a promise, because promises are dangerous. 

It’s Yaz who finds a suitable word. “Help.” She says it confidently, willingly, and the Doctor hums her agreement. 

Help, that’s a good word, she likes it — but she can do better, can’t she? 

“Benja, I promise you,” It’s fairly empty, and it is, indeed, dangerous. Potentially meaningless, because Benja does not, in fact, have the faintest idea who she is. She doesn’t even know who Benja is, in retrospect. What did she do in the past to land herself with a  _ bounty  _ on her head? Not that the Doctor can judge -- if anything, she can compare numbers. 

“I  _ promise  _ you,” The Doctor repeats after a pause and breath, even as Yaz casts a warning glance her way because she knows, she’s  _ seen,  _ promises can’t always be fulfilled, but perhaps,  _ just  _ perhaps, that law can be rewritten. That subconscious tool she usually keeps with her, the one that learns from her victories and losses and transcribes them into rules carved in stone, seems to be missing. Or broken. But she’s got a bucket of cement. “I will find a way to keep all of you safe.” 

_ You’re like a tantruming child.  _ No, she’s not.  _ Stomping your feet, demanding to do as you please. _

No,  _ no _ —  _ he  _ will not get into her head. Not anymore, not now. She not only has a job to do, but a consistent distraction. Business as usual, really, and the bar is especially low after three years in confinement and a solid week in  _ Sheffield.  _

Benja nods, something faithful and blind, but far from ignorant. A soldier’s understanding of a promise comes from an alternate plain where a vow is but a plea to the universe to see it through. The Doctor wishes she didn’t recognize so much of the matured pain in those amber eyes.

She’s a sucker for a moral turnaround, always holds a special place in her hearts for those who are strong enough to seal a wicked past where it belongs and come out on the other end with a heart burning to do  _ better.  _ These people have been shown mercy by the universe and decided to take it, and now they’re on the brink of having it snatched right from their hands. 

“ _ Secunda Opportunitas  _ is the station’s full title,” Benja says after a moment, shadowed and heavy. “We were told it means  _ second chance  _ in some Old Earth language. ” 

The Doctor swallows hard. 

“ _ Secunda Opportunitas.”  _ Yaz knits her brow considerately. “That’s Latin, isn’t it? Why name an alien settlement with a dead language from someone else’s planet?” 

Benja shrugs without a care. 

“Right.” The Doctor clasps her hands together and wrings them tight, darting a searching eye around the front room. “I see you’ve got quite the data collection going, can you tell me everything you know about where these cracks are? Any patterns you’ve picked up from the sightings?” 

She feels a particular kinship with this woman, and this manifested civilization as a whole. The Doctor interprets  _ Secunda  _ as a success story, a collection of living proofs that change is possible, and that change can mean peace. One can be better by simply choosing to be, and by laying the necessary foundation to do so.  _ Secunda  _ is these peoples’ foundation, and she won’t stand for something so detrimental to so many souls to be chipped away. 

It’s only half a wonder as to how she and Yaz ended up here. If it matters enough, they’ll figure it out somewhere down the line. Oddly enough, the Doctor feels something akin to gratitude stirring in her chest. Gratitude to whom, she doesn’t know — whatever force of the universe crafts the trials and triumphs that make up her existence, she supposes. Because it feels intentional, in a way. Like the universe has placed her exactly where she’s needed the most. It feels a bit like a second chance of her own, although, you can have an infinity of second chances. They’ve come and gone rapidly throughout her life like shooting stars or best friends, and too often she’s either too slow to catch them or so quick she misses them entirely. 

But this is different, because  _ she’s  _ different now, isn’t she? This isn’t just a second chance, it’s a golden opportunity. 

She’ll be better for the sake of these people. She’ll keep them safe and carve a future into temporal stone that leaves no room for hardship, only an abundance of second chances. 

The people of  _ Secunda  _ will survive. Under the Doctor’s jurisdiction, second chances will be fulfilled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S SPACE BA SING SE FOLKS


	3. The Kakovis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop I'm a day late on this one but here we go! 
> 
> A friend of mine is working on some Benja fanart atm, so I'll be linking that either here/on twitter if she ever gives me the go-ahead to post it because IT'S REALLY!! CUTE!!

Yaz likes  _ Secunda.  _ It feels like a challenge, a special opportunity of sorts, and she can’t help the stir of glee in her chest that arises with the task. She imagines they’ll be marooned for a while and perhaps she should be annoyed by that, or objective, but she feels little but excitement. She has a lot to make up for, and a bit more to prove. 

Three weeks ago, the Doctor sent her friends home. 

Yaz never did adjust, never found a lifeboat to sail her away from the grief that held her heart in her throat and kept restless eyes open at all hours of the night. Those two weeks without her passed like twenty years, evenings wrapped up in debilitating heartache that pinned Yaz to bed and dragged her mind somewhere full of shadows, inconsistent tears and an emptiness in her chest she didn’t know if she’d ever manage to refill. She didn’t have to, thankfully, because the Doctor was found. The Doctor was okay, therefore  _ everything  _ was okay. Starting then, Yaz felt more like a human being rather than the withered remains of one left behind. 

But during those two weeks, Yaz also lost her job. 

The first day on Earth, slave to the laws of time, she was already pushing her limits. She was due back from her previous ‘sabbatical’ the day before, and owed the station at the very least, a phone call. A good explanation could have saved her a lot of trouble, but Yaz couldn’t stomach the idea of speaking to hardly anyone but Ryan and Graham. No one understood, no one really seemed to  _ hear her  _ when she spoke. When she found the strength to pick up her phone five days later, it was too little too late. 

_ “You’re my best probationer, Yaz. Wish you could have finished your period, but we’ve been as patient as we can with your attendance.”  _

_ “I know… I understand.”  _ She didn’t have the will to defend herself to any degree. She was too tired, too heartbroken every waking hour to do much more than exist, so at the time it was, in a way, a blessing to be freed of obligation. 

_ “I’m really sorry, Yaz. You had a bright career ahead of you — still might if you can get yourself back on track someday.”  _

_ So,  _ Yaz thinks, seated comfortably in the crevices of a dusty sofa in a humble home on an alien refugee station,  _ this is me, getting back on track.  _

She was a good police officer when given the opportunity. Yaz considers herself to be courageous when confidence fails, strong-willed and quick-thinking in areas everyone else seemed to get stuck in, but was never given the chance to utilize much more than her expertise in forbearance. Parking disputes required a remarkable amount of patience like settling a children’s feud over a favorite toy. It was boring, redundant, and never enough. 

But out here, at the Doctor’s side, she has an opportunity. To be capable, to be strong, to be good at what she does. She doesn’t need to be  _ PC Khan  _ with the universe at her fingertips, she can be so much more. Yaz gained a lot of experience during her first stretch of time in the TARDIS; she’s knowledgeable, she’s  _ capable,  _ and she’d be lying to herself to entertain the idea that she isn’t looking forward to putting herself to the test. There’s an undeniable need to prove herself  _ to  _ herself, and to the Doctor _.  _ To see more, achieve more,  _ do  _ more. They’re down half the team, so she has a chance to step up. She’ll never achieve those insurmountable heights -- she’ll never  _ be  _ the Doctor, but she can still be good. She can make a difference in the universe where she never had the chance back home. 

Here, positioned at the Doctor’s side on an alien settlement in an unknown pocket of spacetime, is Yaz’s place. She feels it carved into her heart, embedded in the structural basis of her consciousness, that this is where she belongs. 

The Doctor, now seated on the floor, props her chin on her fist as she frowns at the map stretched across the surface of the table. 

“This is the control tower?” She presses her index finger to an illustration of adjoined boxes at one end of the map then slides it almost all the way to the other. “And this is where we are?” 

Benja nods grimly. “It’ll take you a while to get there on foot, probably more than a week. We don’t have access to transportation here in the outer sector.” 

“No teleports?” The Doctor clarifies. 

Benja shakes her head. “Currently disabled as a precaution, but the connection is barely existent this far out from the tower so it doesn’t really matter.” 

“But things can still get  _ in  _ this far out, can’t they?”

“Unfortunately yes. If they have the means, which apparently they do.” 

Yaz feels like she’s missed a big chunk of the conversation and slides off the sofa to plop down on the floor. “Is the control tower where we need to go?” 

The Doctor nods distractedly. “Bit of a walk, but I need access to the heart of  _ Secunda’s  _ defenses before I can work out a way to keep it sealed off.” 

“It’ll be faster than taking the main road if you cut a line straight through.” Benja draws a line with her fingertip from point A to point B. “There are several sectors between us and the tower. Some big, some small, some much better equipped than others, but you won’t be met with violence in any of them.” She assures. “Maybe a bit of confusion, but they’ll be hospitable once they know your intentions. Give you places to rest along the way.” 

A week of foot travel shouldn’t sound pleasant. A steady drip of invasions initiated by a murderous race shouldn’t sound exciting _ ,  _ stakes at such heights shouldn’t leave Yaz  _ buzzing,  _ but they do. Past travels were often incidental, missteps or wrong turns that led to places of interest or a world that needed saving, but this is different. A proper  _ mission  _ comes once in a blue moon, and yes, Yaz is  _ very much  _ excited. 

“When do we leave?” Yaz leans forward eagerly with arms crossed atop the table, seeking out the Doctor’s distracted eye. 

“Now, just about.” The Doctor folds the map into a neat, palm sized square and tucks it into her pocket. “How far are we from the next sector, Benja?”

“Three hour walk, two if you’re any good.” Benja’s eye wanders to the front window, to the artificial sun settling into the horizon and it’s contrived luminescence painting a soothing gold atop tree leaves and rooftops. “You should stay for a night before you set off. It’s safer to travel in the daylight.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem. I’ve got excellent hearing,” The Doctor reassures proudly. “And an even better sense of potential hazard.” 

Yaz snorts, and can clearly recall at least a dozen occasions when the Doctor had nothing of the sort. Her area of expertise tends to be escaping the danger, not evading it. 

Benja’s gaze hasn’t shifted from the window to the left of the front door, and Yaz follows her eye to squint through the kaleidoscope of smudges and fingerprints to what lay beyond. 

There’s nothing at first. Not a sight, not a sound, nor a bristle of unease until the ground begins to shudder, a thunderous rumble from the atmosphere pressurizing the air around them until Yaz is left with palms pressed against her ears. 

She ducks her head, eyes torn away from the window as she cowers away from the sound, and when Yaz lifts her eyes and lowers her hands, Benja has gone pale. 

“What was that?” The air has settled, and the village is entirely soundless. Yaz rises to her feet but the Doctor is already bustling past, palms and forehead pressed to the window as she scans the outside village for the source of the noise. 

“That’s…” Benja takes a single step back, eyes rounded and shining with something inconsolable. 

“Is that a Kakovis ship?” The Doctor whirls around, anxious and befuddled, fingertips sliding down the glass and curling into fists and channeling her alarm through whitened knuckles. 

Benja nods quickly, amber eyes anchored and fearful, and Yaz can see it now: a ship settled into the dust on the other side of the village. It’s not remarkable in size and surely can’t hold more than a handful of passengers, and the glow and pulse of its engines dull, simmer, then power down. The earth ceases it’s vibrations, and an ominous quiet settles over existing trepidation. 

“Benja.” The Doctor takes two long strides to cut off the woman’s line of view, head ducked, eyelids hooded, tone sharpened. “Come on,” She snaps her fingers once, twice, bending slightly at the knees to match the refugee’s height. “I need you to tell me anything that will help, and  _ quickly, please. _ ” 

The muscles in Benja’s jaw tighten and jump, teeth firmly clenched with the numbness of indecision. She lists backwards as if following a call to retreat, but roots herself, feet firmly planted and expression schooling itself into ferocity. 

She looks pained, she looks angry, but above all, she looks ready to take out the fleet single-handedly. 

She turns heel to kneel in front of the sofa, lowering herself to her elbows to peer at the underside and procure an arm-length, jet-black blaster. Yaz grimaces and takes a step back to make room for the Doctor’s impending lecture. 

“No.” The Doctor immediately springs forward, one pleading hand outstretched and steady. “No guns. We don’t know what they want.” 

“Yes, we do!” Benja takes up arms, the weapon clasped tight in both hands and tucked to her side with an experienced precision, moulded and worn to fit her grip perfectly. “Them, or anything else falling through those cracks are here to do one thing, and one thing only. It’s stand to survive or sit around and be slaughtered.” 

“But we’re here to help, remember?” Yaz dares a step forward, eyeing Benja’s trigger finger that taps anxiously against the side of her gun. Yaz doesn’t fear for herself, but fear as a concept can be blinding, disorientating, and lead to rash decisions. “If it’s you lot they’re after, shouldn’t you hide?” 

“Hide?” Benja straightens, intensifies with every syllable she speaks, and seems almost offended at the suggestion. “Weren’t you listening? Now that they know where we are, no one can hide. No one can  _ run.  _ Our only hope is to defend ourselves and each other, rid this station of the Kakovis and anything they send after us when they’re feeling cowardly. We’ll be picked off one by one if we do nothing but hide _. _ ” 

“You have to. I’m telling you to.” The Doctor bucks up, standing in direct line of the firearm. “Keep yourself safe. Let me and Yaz talk to them.” 

Yaz glances out the window again and witnesses the bottom hatch of the ship fall open, the end of an exit ramp hitting the earth with a reverberating thud. 

Benja notices it too, and the flicker of terror in her eyes fades to the background as her grip tightens on her weapon. “You’ve only just got here. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Usually, no, I don’t. But I get there in the end, don’t I, Yaz?” The Doctor looks to her beseechingly.

“Yeah… yeah. She does.” Yaz feels a bit wary though, a bit unsure, which is an uncommon thing to experience with the Doctor’s usual certitude to fall back on. Because sometimes talking works, sometimes it doesn’t, and the stakes are a bit high. Lives are on the line. She trusts the Doctor, as always, to know what to do, but can’t help but eye her friend with interest, pondering the outcome of both equally risky strategies. 

The Doctor sighs, short and frustrated and with an accusing eye that tells Yaz she was very unhelpful. Yaz can only wince an apology. 

“Let us talk to them.” The Doctor reiterates, steady and almost cold, looming over their host with a stance and demeanor that typically leaves no room for argument. “Stay hidden, stay safe.” She casts a glance over her shoulder, out the window, and Yaz follows it to see three white-armored soldiers descending the platform. 

Benja swallows audibly, white-knuckled grip shaking slightly around the blaster and with a quiet exhale of defeat, she points it at the floor. 

The Doctor’s shoulders relax, and Yaz bites her tongue. 

“Thank you.” The Doctor breathes, already backing towards the exit. “You can trust us, yeah? Nothing to worry about. Confrontation is my bread and Yaz’s butter. She’s a police officer from Sheffield _—_ this lot don’t know what they’re in for.” 

Benja doesn’t speak up, tensed and wary and lacking a satisfactory amount of faith, but manages a nod. 

“Come on, Yaz.” The Doctor cocks her head towards the exit and Yaz gives Benja a reassuring, slightly pinched smile before following the Doctor out the door. 

When they step outside, Yaz makes sure she’s standing at the Doctor’s shoulder, not a fraction behind, even as her friend tries to take the lead. The Kakovis are positioned in a static formation just outside the ramped entrance to the slick, stark white, two-winged ship that isn’t much taller than the houses it nearly crushed. At the far corners of its rounded nose are two large, black, inverted domes, like the soulless eyes of a fruitfly. 

She finds those soulless eyes etched into the masked helmets of two Kakovis soldiers bordering their unmasked, stoic superior. The three invaders are seemingly unarmed, hands clasped behind their backs, tall and sturdy and poised with a carriage of superiority. They’re cocky, Yaz can already tell, and her lip ever so slightly curls in distaste as she and the Doctor approach. 

“What have we here, then?” The Doctor is all smiles and bright eyes, coming to a stop only paces from the soldier in the center, folding her hands behind her back to mock their stance. “Bit ragtag. Aren’t you lot meant to be  _ impressively  _ equipped or something?” 

The Kakovis are humanoid, completely standard by appearance, and Yaz wonders if that’s just a strike of luck in this corner of the universe or if her perception is being manipulated. Everyone in the village, currently hidden in the safety of their unstable homes, appear human as well. 

“Who are you?” The leader, Yaz supposes, being the front and center of attention and the only soldier without a masked helmet, raises a closed fist to swipe a wrist scanner from the Doctor’s head to toe, then does the same to Yaz. “Not in the database. Tourists, are we?” 

“Oh yeah, lovely spot. Rated  _ Best Summer Holiday Location  _ on TripAdvisor, and, well,” The Doctor shrugs theatrically. “Could do with a few more provisions, but I give it a solid eight out of ten.” 

“Step aside.” The Kakovis commands, disregarding the tangent, lowering his head to shoot her a threatening glare under hooded eyelids. “You’re not tagged so you’ll be spared so long as you don’t get in the way. Collateral damage really is disappointing, when it comes about.” From the sly smile at the corner of his lips, disappointing isn’t the right word. 

“Get in the way of what?” Yaz bucks up, braving a step forward and ignoring the Doctor’s anxious eye. “Don’t see any weapons. How are you planning on eradicating an entire village without weapons?” 

The helmeted bounty hunters standing at the leader’s right and left are still, stationed and obedient, outlining the man’s sickening poise. He grins, all teeth and cracked lips and seemingly blind confidence, and Yaz feels a pinprick of dread pierce her own courage. 

“I do  _ suggest  _ that you find some form of cover.” The leader lifts a cover from a panel higher up on his forearm, revealing a set of buttons, switches, and a holographic display. “And whether you abide by that suggestion or not is entirely up to you.” 

Yaz’s so-called quick-thinking loses a bit of its status, because she isn’t sure what to expect, or what to do besides watch. The Doctor on the other hand, promptly straightens in alarm, and just as the leader’s index finger descends onto a blue button Yaz finds herself being shoved face-first into the dirt. 

The stimulus is overwhelming, difficult to process. The thunderous blast comes from somewhere behind her, coupled with the sensation of half the Doctor’s weight pressed into her back, securing her to the earth and shielding her body with her own. Yaz’s arms instinctively come to cover the back of her head, elbows tucked against her ears as the reverberations of unseen explosions rattle a deafening bass deep in her chest. 

The weight is suddenly lifted as the Doctor scrambles to her knees, then her feet, one urgent hand fisted in the material of Yaz’s shirt to beckon her upward. “Yaz!” 

Yaz grabs the Doctor’s arm in her disorientation to help herself up, back to the chaos, and forces herself to turn around on dread-numbed legs.

The calm, quaint sight of the wide circle of minut homes with their admirable inhabitants has turned to catastrophe. There’s another explosion, the visual experience marred by the Doctor dragging her in the opposite direction, and when Yaz’s eyes refocus she realizes that two of the homes have been reduced to flaming rubble and crushed embers. 

“ _ Stop! _ ” The Doctor keeps one hand on Yaz’s shoulder, both of them sheltered beneath the nose of the ship and a few paces behind the soldiers, and the leader twists back to drop a cunning brow. 

“This doesn’t concern you.” It’s dismissive, deflective, and a flash of reddened rage splays across the Doctor’s cheeks. 

Yaz flinches when another explosion rings out through the open air but keeps herself composed this time, save for the hands she presses over her ears. Her eyes track the source of the blow to a small hatch near the top of the Kakovis ship, the tip of a launcher poking out from the shadowed inside. It seems to be working in a line, starting it’s fire on one end of the village and circling in the direction of the other. Three of fifteen houses are now burnt to a crisp, their inhabitants slave to ash and flame. 

Nearly all the way at the opposite end sits Benja’s home, and Yaz confirms with a sense of relief that the refugee still hasn’t emerged. Yaz thinks she catches sight of her watching through the window, but when she blinks, the figure is gone.

“Yaz,” The Doctor’s hands are on both her shoulders now, whirling them around to capture Yaz’s wide eyes, raising her voice over the cacophony. “Go tell everyone to get out,  _ run,  _ as far away as they can. The houses are pre-targeted, they aren’t safe there!” 

An intense focus is formed between unwavering gazes, an unspoken urgency, an underlying agreement. Yaz nods, backpedals at first, then turns herself around to sprint full speed in the direction of the house furthest from the impending line of blasts. She has a part to play, and dozens of lives are counting on her to play it well. 

She spares a glance back, sees the Doctor lurching for the wrist of the fleet leader and his comrades advancing on her with weaponless fists raised. Yaz faces forward, carries on with a concentration she feigns and forces until it’s real. The Doctor can take care of herself. 

When Yaz reaches the first house, the door is slightly ajar, two pairs of fearful eyes peering through the crack. “Get out!” She skids to a halt once she’s near enough to be heard, gesturing wildly with beckoning hands. “Come on, run! Get as far away from here as you can!” 

The door is flung open to reveal a man and a woman who trip over each other in their haste to shoot out the door, barrelling in the direction of safety, leaving the village ablaze and forgotten. Yaz runs to the next house, calling out the same command and waving them urgently past with orders to follow the others. 

Five houses destroyed now, seven standing in between Yaz and the next on the launcher’s list. With a sinking heart and a falter in step, she realizes she’ll be lucky to get even half the village out alive. 

She’s caught drastically off guard when two houses down the line, a child emerges from his home, running madly on short legs in the direction of the blasts with floppy brown hair bristling in the wind.

“Dad!” His voice is high, youthful, innocent and  _ mortified,  _ and Yaz realizes he’s beelining for the next house in the line of fire. 

“Hey! Come back!” Yaz hollers, out of breath and hurling herself in his direction, but she’s cut off by Benja barreling out of her home and sprinting towards the child. 

“Kaias!” The fear in Benja’s voice is different from before, a desperate cry without restraint that unlike Yaz’s own call, prompts the boy to turn around. 

Benja bends down to insistently grip his shoulders, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “I’ll get your dad, go follow the others.” When he hesitates, frozen between his options, Benja takes the former away from him with a forceful but gentle shove in the shoulder. “ _ Go. _ ” 

Yaz watches the boy stumble, stutter a moment longer, then dart away towards safety. 

“Benja!” Yaz calls, struggling to catch up, and when the woman glances her way she raises her voice a notch higher. “Get back!” 

She’s close enough to see it in her demeanor, the tightness of clenched fists, the strain in sagging shoulders as the refugee catches her breath. Benja holds her eye for only a moment, and when Yaz is finally close enough to find something defeated swirling behind tired, glistening amber eyes, she’s slipping out of reach. 

“Benja!” Yaz calls again, skidding to a stop, but the woman has already vanished through the front door. Yaz holds her breath, looking back to the launcher that shifts a notch to the left, and before she can consciously decide what to do her feet are turning her around and carrying her away. 

The blast comes from just far enough behind her back that the shockwave is lackluster, knocking Yaz to her knees but permitting her to rise. She stays there instead, bracing her palms against the ground and curling her fingertips into the dirt, daring to twist her head around halfway, braving a single look back. 

The fifth house no longer exists, only the remains of tattered, burning wood and licks of traitorous orange in its wake. Benja, and the man she hoped to rescue, didn’t make it out in time.

“ _ No. _ ” All the oxygen is forced from her lungs in one single,  shattered  exhale, shaky hands fist into the earth beneath them, and Yaz, in the midst of fire both inside and out and the chaotic distraction of someone else’s shouting, spares herself seven seconds. 

Benja is dead, fallen to the very hand she swore to defy. They let her down. 

And now Yaz has to move on, right? So that maybe,  _ possibly,  _ they don’t fail everyone else as well. 

Yaz’s throat constricts with regret, and she swallows it down. 

When she rises to her feet, readied and  _ set  _ on getting every single remaining individual out unscathed, another home is lost to flame. 

Yaz shields her face with her arms, backpedalling on instinct despite the twisting knife of concern in her chest for those remaining. But when she lowers them, blinking tearily against smoke that stings and assaults her eyes, she sees a quantiful cluster of people all scurrying off in the direction of the setting sun. She takes another couple steps back, scanning wildly left, right, and back again. Of the homes remaining, their doors are ajar, and with their quantity rapidly dwindling Yaz  _ has  _ to trust that that means they’re vacant. 

She’s running again, fatigued but determined, back to the distant ship and the figures scrambling beneath its nose. The two, less relevant Kakovis are now on the ground, unmasked, and unconscious. 

And the Doctor is standing above them, arms locked against those of the fleet leader’s who shoves, swings and flails, but never lands a blow. 

Yaz has never seen the Doctor actually  _ fight  _ before, but it comes as no surprise that she knows how. This might not count as fighting, actually, Yaz muses as she watches the Doctor use the leader’s weight against him, side stepping, ducking and dodging, never throwing a single punch of her own. 

“Doctor!” Yaz calls. The Doctor’s forearms are braced against the leader’s, heels sturdily embedded in the earth, and her head shoots up to attention rapidly enough that her hair swishes with the movement, unmasking a ferociously pinched expression and a pair of wild, hazel eyes that tell a story of sorrow, anger, and failure. She witnessed everything. 

The Doctor’s distracted gaze then tracks the movements of the crowd, growing smaller and smaller with increasing distance and never pausing for breath, never looking back. There’s a tiny, miniscule flash of relief in her pinched expression that’s quickly used against her, the Kakovis leader seizing the opportunity to hook a leg behind the Doctor’s knees and send her crashing to the earth. 

By the time Yaz catches up and the Doctor is rising to her feet, the unconscious assailants are rousing, rolling over, and staggering towards their ship’s open hatch. Yaz curls a firm grip around the Doctor’s upper arm and heaves her up the rest of the way, only to be nearly knocked off her feet when the Doctor uses her to push off in the direction of the fleeing soldiers. 

Yaz is left disoriented, stumbling a couple steps back as explosions continue to ring out behind her back, the leader and his comrades sprinting up the entry ramp and vanishing into the shadowed inside. The Doctor is running full force, arms pumping, short legs taking long strides up the incline before she too has disappeared into the darkness. 

And Yaz is left alone, senses overwhelmed, brain muddled and struggling to grasp the onslaught. Flames crackle and snap in her ears as they dance on the graves of demolished homes, cruelly reducing destruction to nothingness. Sparks float across her field of view, little fireflies of horror taunting and fading from reach like the ghosts of those that never escaped. Yaz sniffs once, blinks several times as smoke relentlessly pours into her eyes and nose, and finds herself transfixed into place. 

Four homes remain standing, but the village, as a whole, has been destroyed. She does everything she can to keep herself from dwelling on the number of the dead, and it’s fairly easy, because she doesn’t even  _ know _ . How many made it out before the blasts hit? How many didn’t? How many lost families today? Parents, siblings, best friends? Destruction, both on the surface and far beneath it, has seized this corner of  _ Secunda  _ and claimed it as its own. 

Yaz tears her gaze away from the remains when she hears the click of heels on steel, and turns to see the Doctor, on her own, flying down the entry ramp with the sonic fisted in her right hand. She raises it the first step she takes back onto solid ground, points it to the space she emerged from, then the hatch creaks and squeals as it’s secured back into a closed position against the underside of the ship. 

The Doctor hasn’t stopped running, reaching Yaz just as the hatch sounds a click and a whir as the automatic locks latch it into place. Yaz can only blink, jaw hanging slightly open, caught in the numbing stillness of ongoing nonplus until cold fingers are curling around her wrist. 

“ _ Run! _ ” 

Yaz snaps back into full awareness when she’s forced to follow the Doctor’s momentum, being all but dragged by the wrist at first until her feet find the will to keep up. Yaz manages to close a bit of the gap, bending her outstretched arm and shifting the Doctor’s grip until their palms meet and she can grip her hand like a liferaft.

They run, away from the ship, away from the village, in the opposite direction of the fleeing settlers. Yaz doesn’t stop to question, or to catch her breath, only follows blindly until one final, much louder explosion reverberates from behind her back. 

_ Boom. _

Yaz shoots a wild glance over her shoulder to see the Kakovis ship mid-eruption, flames billowing almost all the way to the skyline before settling to match the quiet chaos of their surroundings; an abandoned haze of grey and orange and defeat. 

Dragged along by the Doctor’s frantic grip, Yaz doesn’t have time to brood over mistakes, wrong turns or letdowns. 

But even now, footsteps hammering against dusty earth, distracted and disoriented as she is, the outcome feels like a punch in the stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos are always appreciated! I'm in a bit of a rut writing chapter 10 at the moment so some feedback could give me a much needed boost <(￣︶￣)>


	4. Better Luck Next Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’ll do better tomorrow. She’s capable, she’s strong, she’s impossibly clever… and she has no option but to get it right. There’s always a way. There’s always a right choice, isn’t there? She just has to be quick enough to find it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI YES SORRY I moved about a month ago and have just been completely out of whack since then, BUT THAT PANEL AND THOSE PICTURES FROM YESTERDAY HAVE AWOKEN SOMETHING IN ME SO -- BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BROADCASTING 
> 
> Gonna go back to trying to post every weekend. Buckle up kiddos

It feels like a slap in the face. 

This wasn’t how she was supposed to start out. This wasn’t how this was supposed to  go _.  _ That wasn’t better — that wasn’t even  _ good.  _

The Doctor swallows down a wave of nausea. She can’t dwell, not now, not yet at least. It’s too early in the game, she has too much to do, and if she spirals now she might not stabilize. 

It’s fine. Just a wobble, just a mistake. She cringes, lips pinched and eyes screwed up shamefully, but quickly rights the expression. 

Just a wobble. Just a wobble.  _ Don’t dwell.  _

_ She lurched up the ramp and into the belly of the ship at the heels of the Kakovis, legs burning from the incline, and from then on the Doctor was running completely blind. She knew she had to do something, and with the three soldiers on the brink of an unjust escape, she knew she had to do it quickly. _

_ With no plan and little sense of direction -- rounding corners, ducking through side doors -- she found herself in a control room. She needed… what? The eject button? A conveniently delayed launch switch? She  _ had  _ to get the Kakovis off this station, but she  _ also  _ had to make sure they didn’t come back.  _

_ And there was only ever going to be one way to go about that, wasn’t there?  _

The Doctor destroyed the ship, with its inhabitants sealed inside. 

That wasn’t okay. 

_ That wasn’t okay.  _ She didn’t have to  _ kill them.  _

But... she did, didn’t she? Maybe. Right? Right — because how else?  _ How else was she meant to keep that same ship from returning and inflicting the same level of destruction?  _

She vowed to keep Secunda and its inhabitants safe, and she’s already let them down. Benja, and too many others, were lost to the literal fires of her broken promise. 

_ Why did she promise?  _ That bucket of cement she poured over her own stone-carved rules seemed like a tactical advantage at the time. 

_ Benja.  _ She deserved so much better, and the Doctor knows it. 

Was she right? Should the Doctor have allowed her to rush out of that house guns-blazing? Allowed her to open fire on an enemy she knew little about? 

The Doctor can’t see her current self, in her current position, ever giving such an order. 

But maybe she should have. 

That’s the problem, she realizes now.  _ She doesn’t know,  _ but she has to. She  _ has  _ to. It’s her job to make those decisions. 

The Doctor doesn’t stop running until she feels Yaz’s clammy grip slip from her own.

“Slow down!” Yaz is stuttering to a halt when the Doctor glances back, hands on her hips, head tilted back as she heaves to replenish the oxygen she’s wasted. “That’s far enough, isn’t it? Let me catch my breath.” 

The Doctor nearly snaps a protest, hearts beating a nervous staccato in her chest as she stares over Yaz’s shoulder to the far off image of smoke and embers, itching to put it out of sight and  _ perhaps,  _ therefore, out of mind, but Yaz is right. 

Yaz devotes her concentration to each inhale and exhale even after the Doctor detects her pulse returning to normal. Her gaze is averted, fixed on the horizon instead of the Doctor’s own, and fills the space a conversation should probably reside with her own steady breathing. 

The Doctor lets it slide. She doesn’t feel like talking about the incident either. 

Wordlessly, she withdrawals the map supplied by Benja from her inside pocket and begins to unfold it. Her fingers tremble as they grip the edges, resulting in the otherwise simple task taking a few extra seconds and graciously, Yaz doesn’t seem to notice. The Doctor takes one, especially deep breath, exhales slowly, and repeats the act until she can think in a relatively straight line. 

“Three hours, two if we’re good.” She cuts through the silence with an echo of Benja’s earlier statement, eyes on the map, feeling Yaz’s piercing gaze boring into the side of her head like daggers of confusion. The Doctor pretends not to notice. “And we’re pretty good, yeah? We’ll be at the next sector before we know it.” 

Yaz, dumbfounded, doesn’t pipe a response. Innocently, the Doctor lifts her head.

“What?” It comes out like half a question, half an accusation. Yaz’s reddened, smoke-irritated eyes rounded with bewilderment, lips parted but unmoving in a clear request for an explanation. 

_ Aren’t we gonna talk about what just happened?  _

No. They’re not. 

“Come on.” The Doctor tears her eyes away, chin up and expression manually rooted into something far steadier than actuality, straightening her shoulders when she realizes they’ve been hanging. 

She has to move on.

* * *

Open plain eventually thickens into encompassing, stock-still greenwood. No rustle of critters rooting around in underbrush or kiss of wind to shift creaky branches and rustle dry leaves, only melancholy trees that loom over the travellers like observers, wilted and pained but hopeful as they pass by.

They’ve been walking for an hour. Yaz is the current keeper of the unfolded map, tilting her head to analyze it from a different angle and confirm they’re going the right direction. She’s been doing that frequently, unnecessarily, even. When she folds it back up, she slips it into her own pocket instead of handing it back to the Doctor. 

Twice, with a quiet tone and nervous lilt, Yaz asks if she’s okay, to which the Doctor only mutters dismissals and distractions. Other than that, eerie quiet is merely dotted with the crunch of dry leaves under boots and sneakers, soft breaths that control their exhales so as not to disturb one another. 

The Doctor’s mostly just looking to distract herself. 

_ “ — Superb demonstration of your pompous expertise in heroism, Doctor. I’m positively quaking.”  _

God, she can see the clap of his hands so vividly; unhurried and condescending, dirt-caked but unweathered and unfairly unmarred — he’s always so  _ remarkably  _ intact while she rips herself apart at the seams.

In her mind’s eye those meandering, mesmerizing hands fold together and still with knuckles pressed to chapped lips to crack a nauseating smile right down the middle. The Master widens his grin around them, eyes sparkling with mischief and transfixed with  _ intrigue,  _ like a boy pressed against the safety glass of a zoo exhibit.

_ “Oh, I cannot  _ wait  _ to see what your ingenious sense of morality comes up with next.” _

The Doctor grits her teeth, digs her fingernails into her palms until the slight sting brings reality to the forefront. She shakes her head, rolls her shoulders and focuses solely on the sound of leaves crunching and crackling beneath her boots.

She’s okay, she’s fine, it’s  _ fine.  _ She’ll get it right next time. She’s better now, isn’t she? She won’t be weighed down, she won’t be pulled under, and she definitely won’t let  _ him _ pull her under, because she’s helpless from the depths of her own self-loathing. The Doctor is no good to anyone from down there. 

“How do you know Latin?” 

Yaz gives her that same look as before, subtler this time, furrowed brow and parted, unmoving lips like the Doctor’s just said the last thing she’d expect her to say. 

“Sonya watched  _ Gladiator — _ once — __ for  _ entirely  _ non educational purposes, and started acting like she knew everything there was to know about the Romans. Naturally I spent that night on  _ Duolingo  _ until I could tell her in Latin that she’s an idiot. Only took an hour.” 

“Ah, siblings.” The Doctor says wistfully. “Prompting human beings to learn new things out of pure spite since the dawn of time.” 

Yaz supplies a weak chuckle at that. “It was pretty boring, actually. Didn't stick with it, but I know what it looks and sounds like.” 

“I was best friends with a Roman centurion once.” The Doctor ducks under a low hanging branch and swipes a hand through her hair when it tangles on a protruding twig. “Well, he didn’t start out as one, but took it in his stride pretty well.” 

Yaz drops her brow, licking her lips in the beginnings of a question that she seems to deem unnecessary. 

The return of weighted silence is anything but tranquil, and the Doctor scratches at her palms as a nervous energy pulses through her veins with a bit more insistence this time. The quiet is suffocating, encompassing, and whispering threats to drown her. 

Subtle and with a mere flick of the eyes, she glances Yaz’s way. She looks both physically and emotionally fatigued, footsteps slow and heavy and shoulders slumping to the mercy of gravity. The slight, persistent crease of her brow doesn’t go unmissed, a clear sign of distress, and the Doctor could never blame her after the day they’ve had. 

She should say something to ease her mind. Something good, something comforting, something helpful. 

But the Doctor’s lips remain cruelly sealed shut, because she hasn’t even figured out what to say to herself. 

Twigs irritatingly scrape at her exposed hands and shins as she clears her throat and settles for something neutral. “We can stop for a rest soon.” 

Yaz nods, picking her knees up high to step over brambles in their path. “We’ll need some sort of supplies sooner or later, yeah? If we’re making a direct shot for the control center there’ll be times we don’t come across another town for a day or so.” 

The Doctor nods in agreement and manages to sparkle with a touch of pride. “Good thinking ahead, Yaz.” 

Yaz swipes the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead. “Want to sit for a bit?” 

They’re soon sliding to the forest ground with backs resting against neighboring tree trunks, Yaz with a plop and a sigh of relief, the Doctor with a controlled steadiness and calm hands that come to rest in her lap.

She stares right through her hands, picking at her thumbnail with absentminded imprecision. Yaz’s eyes are burning a hole through the side of her head like an attempt to read her mind, and it takes mindful effort for the Doctor not to shy away. 

She  _ really  _ doesn’t want to talk about it, but it looks like the matter might be out of her hands. 

“Doctor.” 

“I’m fine, Yaz.” 

“I don’t think you are, and you should tell me why.” 

The Doctor turns to her, brow arched, hooded eyes meeting determined ones as she takes a moment to analyze them, pinpoint their intent. “Should I?” 

Yaz lets out a shallow sigh, gaze unwavering but tinged with an unexpected trace of aged frustration. The kind that you bury, ignore, suppress until it comes spilling out the top. 

Yaz doesn’t bite, though. Whatever’s bothering her, she’s remarkable as always at keeping a level head and a steady composure. It’s a tad mesmerizing, her self control. 

“We can’t do this again.” Her voice doesn’t match the intensity in her eyes — softer now, a bit sad, and it catches the Doctor off guard. “ _ I  _ can’t do this again.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“You never told us anything.” Yaz crosses her arms, leaning back against the tree trunk and suppressing a wince as bark digs uncomfortably into her back. She’s trying to be stoic, bold. “You said you did, but you  _ didn’t,  _ not really.” 

The Doctor’s jaw tightens and she swallows to buy herself an extra second, rooting around for the right justification. She has an abundance of them, so many she’s not sure which is correct — so she picks one out of the lot.

“If I told you everything we’d be here for a decade.” 

“We’ve never asked you to tell us everything.  _ I’m  _ not asking you to tell me everything.” 

The Doctor mentally recoils, reaching out blindly for another excuse. “Whatever I tell you and choose not to tell you has always been in your best interest, Yaz. I’m protecting you.” 

“Like from your home planet burning?” 

The Doctor full-body flinches, gaze shooting down to her hands in her lap. The words feel like an accusation and her whole body vibrates with the need to flee them. 

Yaz deflates, and the Doctor can  _ feel  _ her friend’s confidence draining, uncertainty setting in, but she pushes through just a little more. 

“I meant… I’m sorry.” Yaz settles her aimless gaze on the forest floor. “It’s just that we  _ knew,  _ Doctor, we  _ knew  _ something was wrong, that something happened, something big. And you kept it from us for months.” 

“I was  _ protecting you. _ ” She insists again. 

“No, you were protecting  _ you.  _ I just can’t figure out what from.” Yaz swallows audibly. “You were in so much pain, I know you were. That’s… big, Doctor. Too big to keep to yourself, and I know that keeping it to yourself didn’t make it hurt any less.” 

Didn’t it? The Doctor wasted so many hours of her fleeting days thinking about Gallifrey, the Master, uselessly trying to deduce his reasoning, letting it consume her — letting it  _ destroy  _ her. It hurt immeasurably, and that hurt hasn’t gone away, clinging to aching hearts like an incurable disease. Any second, any  _ instant  _ of distraction, any moment she could get swept up in the laughs and smiles of her fam as she led them through glorious worlds and ancient civilizations, was a blessing. Why would she dampen those precious moments with a voluntary surrender to grief? 

“I’m never gonna make you tell me anything, because I know I can’t.” Yaz lifts her head. “But it’s just us now, Doctor. You don’t have an audience, you’re not giving a _TED Talk…_ it’s just me. Your _friend._ ” She ducks her head to catch the Doctor’s evasive eye. “I — really care for you, you know. And it _hurts…_ it’s _really hard_ to watch you suffer alone.” 

“I’m not suffering.” The Doctor folds her arms across her chest, gaze fixed on her boots. 

“Then tell me when you are. Don’t make me try and pry it out of you, ‘cause I will. I’ll try and it’ll bother you, I’ll fail and it’ll bother me.” 

The Doctor mulls the proposition over carefully, scouring for a reason to deem it illegitimate, worthy of a step in the opposite direction — and finds nothing. Yaz has a point. 

“We can’t do this like we did before. Especially if it’s just you and me.” 

The Doctor hesitantly meets her eye, vulnerable, and a tad too exposed. 

“So can you tell me what’s bothering you? Please?” 

She longs for something to fix, or to break, anything to occupy her hands and at least half of her attention. But Yaz deserves more than that, she knows. Yaz has been remarkably patient with her silence, and just because the Doctor can justify it until the end of time itself doesn’t mean she should. 

So she lowers her arms to match Yaz’s open position and leans back against a tree, fists unclenching, walls lowered just enough to peer over the top. 

“I’m trying to do better, Yaz.” 

An uncertain beat.

“What do you mean?” 

How on  _ earth  _ is she meant to explain? Yaz is beautifully human, contains all the most admirable traits of humanity and hardly a fraction of the negative ones. How could she possibly comprehend anything the Doctor might have to say? 

“Just…” She trails off, gaze still, expression slack. “Better.” 

Yaz shifts a little closer, braving the invisible barrier separating them, cracking at it little by little. “You did everything you could back in the village.”

But she didn’t. There’s  _ no way  _ that’s all the Doctor’s capable of; a tail-end scuffle for triumph following the destruction of so much, so many. It was like she lost half her processing power in the haze, the chaos itself maxing out her brain’s capacity and all but spilling over the top. She just couldn’t  _ think —  _ she wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t sharp enough, and her failure paved the way for too many deaths.

Benja. Too bright of a light to be snuffed out the way she was. It was a cruel and  _ unfair  _ ending. She could still be alive if the Doctor had allowed her to eliminate the threat before it could fully form, which she could never do, because she’s the  _ Doctor,  _ and she doesn’t kill people on sight. 

If anything, in the midst of the worst case scenario, the  _ darkest  _ of hours, she lets other people do it for her. 

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what she should have done. 

But maybe not. 

She doesn’t  _ know.  _

So what does she do when her only choices are bad ones? 

She’s pretty sure she used to know the answer to that, and can’t help but ponder where it went. 

“Doctor.” 

Beneath sweeping brows and thick lashes are two almond brown pleas for disclosure, honesty,  _ openness,  _ as the Doctor seals herself as far inside her own mind as she can retreat. Yaz’s presence is a careful prodding at the side door, a rock thudding against a window, an attempt to rein her in.

“You did your best, Doctor.” Yaz reiterates, low and grounding, yet somehow feeling so far away. 

The Doctor swallows tightly. “And that’s exactly the problem. 

Yaz absorbs the statement with pinched lips and a careful mindfulness, taking her time to mull it over. “We don’t — we  _ can’t  _ always win. And you usually don’t get this upset when we don’t.” Her certainty falters, something behind her eyes turning on its heel. “Do you?” 

“I’m not  _ upset,  _ I’m just…” Frustrated. Angry. 

“Why did—” She seems to reconsider, voice a bit weaker, but her gaze is nearly devouring. Piercing, borderline  _ challenging,  _ but in the kindest, most considerate way possible that only mildly ruffles the Doctor’s feathers. “Why did you make a promise you knew you couldn’t keep?” 

_ Because I really thought I could keep it,  _ the Doctor nearly says aloud, but to do such a thing would be an admission of defeat in and of itself. She let Benja down, yes, but her mistakes will not be her foundation. She still has a chance to right herself, kick her head back into gear, and save the station. Her vow was to keep them safe, and she’ll burn up in the flames culpability and outrage before she  _ truly  _ allows that vow to be broken. 

Yaz watches her, patient, quiet, kind and empathetic above all, the Doctor blinks, and suddenly it’s just too much. 

The Doctor springs to her feet and rubs vigorously at her face, erasing all hints that could point towards her emotions and expose them for all to see. She’s fine, it’s  _ fine _ , she’ll get it right next time. 

“Doctor—”

Yaz won’t understand. Yaz will try and convince her that it’s impossible to save everyone, that no one can ever make all the right choices, and if the Doctor gives her the chance, she just might succeed. 

Yaz is just too kind for the Doctor’s current state of mind, and she’s not entirely sure what to do about it besides keep quiet. 

She’ll do better tomorrow. She’ll find a way to keep Yaz’s mind at ease without dragging her along into the stratosphere because she’s so much _safer_ on ground level. All the Doctor’s ever wanted for her was safety — and a couple other things. 

“Ready to keep going?” She straightens the lapels of her coat, a useless gesture save for an excuse to keep her gaze averted. 

Disheartened, Yaz rises to her feet and dusts herself off. 

She’ll do better tomorrow. She’s capable, she’s strong, she’s  _ impossibly  _ clever… and she has no option but to get it right. There’s always a way. There’s always a right choice, isn’t there? She just has to be quick enough to find it. 

Today didn’t count. Her head is just wonky from three years of under stimulation — it’s to be expected, really, and she repeats that to herself like a crucial mantra until the shame and self criticism find their way to the back of the Doctor’s mind. 

It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD i'm so excited for the special


	5. The Uv'eok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Uv'eok!! We've made it to my favorite monster of the week. In an early draft this beastie was in chapter ONE because I was so excited to write about it.

The disquieting forest continues on for well over a mile. Scratchy twigs and brambles irritate her shins and for the first time, the Doctor wonders if she should reconsider her fashion choices. Trousers that reach would be practical, but trousers that don’t, of course, are much more fun.

The air is cooler without the sun’s sky-high presence, but a thick and uncomfortable warmth still clings to the top layer of the Doctor’s skin nonetheless. This terrain’s inky night sky cracks a blueish gloom through the treetops, starlight filtering between leaves and painting a guiding layer of illumination over dry earth. The low light keeps the Doctor’s unease at a manageable level; all her senses alert, peaked, and never dropping their guard even for a moment. Benja said it wasn’t safe to travel at night — suppose they’ll find out soon enough whether she was right.

Yaz is maintaining her focused lead, sparing glances at the map under her phone’s torchlight every few minutes just to make sure they’re on course, and the Doctor allows it. Yaz isn’t one to be idle, always eager for a job to do, so the Doctor leaves this one in her otherwise unoccupied hands. As long as Yaz is busy, the Doctor can’t be analyzed. She’d love to say the same about herself, but her mind continues to wander, examining itself at unsettling depths if she leaves it unsupervised for a moment too long. 

That’s another problem. 

Typically, by now, the guilt would have ebbed into something more tolerable, something she can work with, but it’s clinging on like a leech. Blame heavy in her hearts, someone else’s laughter in a distant corner of her subconscious, only taking the back seat when Yaz’s soothingly soft voice infiltrates the storm in her head like an outstretched hand grasping her own, pulling her back to reality, holding her head above the water without even knowing it. 

“If this entire planet, or station, whatever —” Yaz plasters stray hairs to the side of her head with sweat-slicked palms. “Is artificially constructed, why’d they construct it so  _ hot? _ ” 

“It’s not as bad as it was in the village.” The Doctor stops lagging behind and takes a couple extra long strides until they’re walking parallel. “Probably varies sector to sector depending on who lives there. We gettin’ close?” 

“Think so. Going the right way, at least.” Yaz casts a sidelong glance her way. “How are you not sweating? At  _ all? _ ” 

“Time L— alien perks.” 

“At least there are no bugs.” Yaz plucks at the leaves on low-hanging branches as she passes them. “Or have you got some alien tolerance to those too?” 

“Every species in the universe either hates bugs, eats them, or is one.” 

“You don’t…” 

“Of course I don’t!” The Doctor’s eyes go round. “I mean I  _ did  _ eat fried memory worm,  _ once,  _ but only because they told me what it was  _ after  _ tea.”

Yaz wrinkles her nose. “I mean, you have put stranger things in your mouth.” 

“Like what?!” 

“Like  _ human remains? _ ” 

“When have I  _ ever —  _ oh, at Villa Diodati? That was strictly self-educational, not indulgent.” 

“You can’t justify something that disgusting.” 

“I can justify loads of disgusting things, thank you.” 

The Doctor comes to a stop. Leaves and twigs crackle and snap under distant, unseen footsteps, and the Doctor narrows her eyes to pinpoint their source through the dusk. 

The crunching closes the gap at an anxious speed, the Doctor notes, leaning forward in the direction of the sound, tilting her head, squinting her eyes just a _ tad  _ more until she can _ just make out _ —

“— Watch out!” 

Shadows split and give way to a fleeing figure who fails an attempt to maneuver themself around the Doctor and Yaz, barreling into their shoulders instead. Three bodies crash unceremoniously into the forest floor and the Doctor’s quick to prop herself up on her elbows, a puff of breath scattering obstructing strands of hair out of her line of sight. 

The figure scrambles to their feet, Yaz mumbles something irritated but sensibly aware as she clambers to her knees, while the Doctor holds her head low. Listening, waiting, because the ‘footsteps’ haven’t stopped. 

Heavy thuds sound a repeated crunch atop dehydrated leaves in a series of six as a massive body knocks unwillingly into trees and underbrush. Just as the Doctor’s eyes are widening, as her fingers are digging into the ground beneath them as she braces to stand, a low, hollow growl places a sorrowful layer over the aggressive impression growing closer with every breath. 

She’s heard that sound before. She’s sure of it. Does she know of this creature? The  _ Monstrous Growl Encyclopedia  _ section of even her remarkable brain can only retain so much. 

“Run!” 

It’s  _ her  _ line, and it always sounds weird coming from anyone else. The Doctor whips her head around to face the source of the command as the unnamed refugee finds their footing, trips over nothing, then is swallowed by the dark in a blink.

The Doctor’s brow shoots up to her hairline, rounded eyes finding the similarly stunned of Yaz’s own, then dares a glance over her shoulder to see the beginnings of a tall and again,  _ familiar _ , looming shadow stretching across the forest floor. 

That growl again,  _ sad,  _ far more so than hostile. But it’s still getting closer, and the Doctor isn’t taking any chances.

“Run!” She echoes, voice cracking, helping Yaz to her feet as the Doctor trips over her own. Flight knows no direction in uncertain times like these, and they both find their feet hurdling them through the same shadows that swallowed the first. 

“What is that?” Yaz’s question comes out choppy, dotting the space between short pants as they run parallel. 

The Doctor isn’t sure and doesn’t waste her breath speculating out loud, but she’s got a good guess. Six limbs, an animalistic growl that should strike fear into the hearts of anyone that hears it, but even as her boots pound against the earth, as she drags Yaz by the hand away from what should be a fearful sound, she endures only a strike of sorrow. 

They nearly crash into the back of the figure who's stopped for breath, the monstrous footsteps, if continuing, far enough in the distance to be momentarily unheard. 

“Is it gone?” Yaz braces her hands on her knees as she bends at the waist, chest heaving as she catches her breath and holds an anxious eye in the direction they came from. 

“For now.” Hands on hips and head tilted towards the night sky, there’s a slight wheeze to their breath as the newfound company works harder than the others to recapture it. A beat of consideration follows, a head slowly turns, and in the low light the Doctor makes out two piercing green eyes fixate on her own, then flicker to Yaz. “Who are you? You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“The Doctor. Yaz.” She turns a circle to make absolutely sure they haven’t been followed.

“You probably shouldn’t be out here either, then.” Yaz straightens once she’s relaxed. “Who are  _ you _ ?” 

“Kyllan.” They lift one leg to brush dirt from one knee, then switch to the other, floppy black hair hanging just beneath their brow and sweeping like leaves in the wind every time they twist their head. Starlight is more prominent in this poorly sheltered section of the forest, enhancing seemingly colorless, straight-cut clothing hanging loose around Kyllan’s lanky form to a light blue, scratchy looking t-shirt, and grey trousers that swish around the ankles. “I was looking for Sector 8. I know it’s at the other end of the forest but I got a bit turned around when that…  _ thing  _ fell from the sky.” 

“What was it?” Yaz tilts her head a bit, starlight flickering in her eyes.

Kyllan only shrugs. 

“Was it a Uv’eok?” The Doctor questions, recalling the shadow so distinct even in the dark, the melancholy growl ringing through the trees, and the fact that a creature of such a size with its long, excess limbs, somehow managed  _ not  _ to catch up with the three absconders. 

Kyllan shrugs again, impatient and exaggerated. “I  _ really  _ have no idea. Wasn’t about to take the time to ask.” They take a small step backwards, eyeing Yaz and the Doctor head to toe with a crease of confusion. “You two from the control center? You look a bit… extravagant.” 

“Are those the sort that run the show around here?” The Doctor sweeps her coat aside to place her hands on her hips. “Extravagant ones?” 

“Dunno, never met them. No one has, far as I know.” Their green eyes narrow into belatedly skeptical slits. “Hold on, you’re not from here? How did you get here? You’re not —” Kyllan backpedals, wary hands raising above their waist. 

“ _ No,  _ we’re not with the Kakovis.” Yaz quickly assures. “We’re just here to help.” 

“Good luck with that.” The refugee chuckles unfaithfully. 

“You said you’re looking for Sector 8? So are we.” 

“Bit difficult in the dark.” Kyllan scratches the back of their neck, face pinched with vexation. “You know where we are?” 

“Hold on, hold on. Stop.” The Doctor lets out a short breath. “Yes we know where we are, yes we’ll help you find Sector 8 but just — hold on.” One more breath, and she readjusts her stance. “Regroup. That creature’s still out there and we need to put a bit more distance between us,  _ and  _ we need to find out more about it so that  _ I  _ know how to handle it. I can’t just leave it out here. Kyllan.” She pivots towards them, closed fist and pointed knuckle stabbing in their direction. “Did you get a good look at it?” 

“It’s big, it’s hairy, it’s got  _ six  _ legs. I’d call it more of a beast than a simple creature _.  _ That’s all I’ve got for you.” 

“It’s not a beast, it’s just frightened. Most ‘beasts’ are.” 

“You said it might be a… Uv’e— a what?” Yaz frowns. 

“A Uv’eok. Maybe.” The Doctor rocks restlessly on the balls of her feet. “Come on, walk and talk. We need to find somewhere a bit more open.” 

“If we’re all going the same way let's just find Sector 8.” Kyllan argues. “Can’t be far, and it’ll be safe.” 

“Like I said,” The Doctor closes her fists impatiently. “I can’t leave it out here. Need to figure out what to do about it.” 

Kyllan sighs, short and defeated, but not without a hint of irritation. “Fine. But you get to hold up the rear — if that thing catches up with us I don’t need your  extravagance  putting a target on my back.” 

“Well, you sure are a delight,” Yaz mutters as she and the Doctor fall into step.

“You don’t survive in a world like this for as long as I have by being a delight.” Kyllan ducks under a low-hanging branch. “But I’m not completely terrible, for what it’s worth. How long have you two been on  _ Secunda _ ?” 

“Less than a day.” Yaz supplies while the Doctor treks in observant silence, sparing glances over her shoulder, training her hearing on the space behind. “Got here by accident.” 

“Well that sure is comforting. I always figured this place wasn’t as impenetrable as the figurehead claimed, even before the Kakovis found us.” 

“How long have you lived here?” 

“A long time. Never been one for marking calendars.” 

The Doctor’s never been good at reading one’s age. Kyllan looks young, but a confusing sort of young. They could be fourteen, or twenty-four, or that cadence and flippancy to their tone could just as easily be that of a four-hundred year old. They’ve either seen far too much, or far too little. 

The trees eventually expand into a suitably wide clearing for the three to briefly settle down. Kyllan slips a tattered backpack off their shoulders while Yaz sits back on her heels, map of  _ Secunda  _ unfolded and stretched out atop the leaves in front of her while she works to figure out where they’ve ended up. The Doctor peels her eyes away from Yaz’s slight frown of frustration to eye the shadowed overgrowth behind, both relieved and ill at ease to find it silent and empty. 

“Where are you two from?” 

“Earth,” Yaz answers uneasily, gaze flickering towards the Doctor before continuing on her behalf, “-ish.” 

“That the one that’s always at war with itself?” 

The Doctor almost laughs, while Yaz looks up from the map to consider the question carefully. 

“Earth. They brought that up in school, I think. Humans, right?” Kyllan plops back atop a layer of dried leaves with a graceless crunch. “While the rest of the universe is at each other’s throats at every waking hour, there’s Earth, trapped in its own little bubble of ignorance as it rips apart its very own over stereotypes, misunderstandings and preventable catastrophes. Fascinating, really. Bit sad though.” 

For a moment, Yaz almost looks offended, then realization creeps over her eyes like a reluctant predator as she works out that Kyllan is painfully correct. 

“That’s the one.” The Doctor flashes Kyllan an impish smile as she folds her legs to ease to the ground. “Where are you from, then?” 

“Sector 10. Have you seen Nine, recently? Completely  _ kaput _ . Lots of smoke. The Kakovis are getting cocky.” 

The Doctor doesn’t make a point to slide past the inquiry. In fact, diversion comes very naturally. 

“Where are you  _ originally  _ from?” She reiterates. “Before you came here?” 

The carefree nature that carries through to the refugee’s eyes is quickly replaced with a darkness, a secret the Doctor doesn’t intend to unravel. 

“I don’t dwell on my past. Not a single part of it, not anymore.” 

“Including your home?” Yaz furrows her brow, map now forgotten at her feet as she comfortably draws her knees to her chest and hooks both arms around them. 

Kyllan’s silence answers so that they don’t have to, busying their hands with obstructed, presumably irrelevant items deep in their pack. Yaz purses her lips, unsatisfied, but takes the hint. 

“So… what’s a Uv’eok?” Yaz pronounces each syllable like a question, and the Doctor nods proudly.

“Right. The Uv’eok.” The Doctor settles folded hands comfortably in her lap. “If I’m right, and I think I am, that’s  _ not  _ a beast out there, just a very frightened creature very far from home who happens to be very big.” 

“I’ve heard the Kakovis capture aliens to do their dirty work sometimes.” Kyllan huffs. 

“They’re not the only ones.” The Doctor mutters, unwillingly recalling her first encounter with the Uv’eok, uncomfortably wistful with the memories that arise around it. 

She hasn’t thought about it, or them, pretty much since the day she met one. She was just a child, playing in the streets with the only other boy who ever played with her. They didn’t mean to stumble upon the Uv’eok, and the Uv’eok definitely didn’t mean to stumble upon them. 

As a boy, the Doctor encountered an Outlaw a handful of times before this occasion.  _ Outlaws —  _ at least, that was what he and Koschei used to call them. The scavengers, the defiant civilians denied spacetime travel by the upstanders who were always making noises and accidentally blowing things up in their attempts to contrive the ability themselves. Sometimes he and Koschei would watch the plumes of smoke rise over the hills, taking pause from their game amongst silver fields, never braving the climb to see the other side. 

Until one day, because Theta, of course, could never resist a dare. And Koschei, of course, couldn’t bear secondhand discoveries. 

_ “Did you hear that?” Theta stuttered his chase to a halt as he dropped an outstretched hand, suddenly captivated by the downhearted growl muffled from the other side of hill and mesmerized by its — misery. _

_ Koschei threw a displeased look over his shoulder when he realized the game was over, slowing to a floppy stop with a dramatic sigh. “Come on!”  _

_ “Koschei, listen!” Theta found himself rooted, ears trained on the sound but feet unwilling to carry him towards it. Ecstatic but uncertain, he pointed to the top of the hill when Koschei trotted up to his side.  _

_ “Doesn’t sound like anything from around here.” Koschei frowned, trying to knit together his own reasoning. “You reckon the Outlaws finally figured out how to leave Gallifrey?”  _

_ “And what, kidnapped some creature from another planet?”  _

_ Koschei shrugged. “Maybe they wanted something to experiment on. We don’t know what they get up to over the hills.”  _

_ If Theta weren’t so distracted, he might have felt offended. “Why would they do that?”  _

_ Koschei shrugged again, clearly unbothered. “Dare you to climb to the top.”  _

_ “What? No! You climb to the top!”  _

_ “Come on, don’t be a baby. Everyone at school thinks you’re  _ annoyingly  _ brave, don’t ruin your reputation now.”  _

_ The growl sounded again, surprisingly closer this time, and Theta paused, considered, but not for the sake of the opinion of his peers. Curiosity chimed in the forefront of his mind like a kettle whistling for attention. He wanted to know what the creature was, and why it sounded so — sad.  _

_ So he climbed to the top with a newfound sense of urgency, in a full sprint with arms pumping and dirtied school uniform rustling in the breeze. From behind him, he heard Koschei’s frustrated cry for Theta to slow down, but he saw no reason to. Koschei ended up nearly beating him to the top, scrabbling to race him to the finish line and only coming up a couple steps short.  _

_ And that was when they saw it.  _

_ The creature was about four times Theta’s height and nearly just as wide. Its fur was bristled and dark, and what covered six limbs and a hunched back was matted and filthy. Its face — two slitted yellow eyes and a protruding snout, dripping fangs and curled lips, was marred with agony and neglect.  _

_ Theta was too taken aback from the sight to properly register that this creature, however it ended up so far from home, was barreling right towards them, and that they should probably step out of the way.  _

_ Instead, too frazzled to register the obstacles, the creature knocked right into Theta and Koschei’s shoulders and sent them whirling in opposite directions. _

_ They watched it go, and of course, they followed it. Across crystal creeks and deep into silvery wood, they tracked the oddity until the suns went down and they found it cowering against a moss coated tree, exhausted and spent, and entirely non-hostile.  _

_ As dusk neared twilight, Koschei went about the evening speculating on the Outlaw’s antics while Theta spent his time learning about the creature. He discovered they were hyper-sensitive, particularly to sound. When Theta spoke softly, this slumped, massive _ , terrifying  _ creature, would perk its pointed ears skyward and listen to every word he said. When Koschei snapped a stick over his knee out of boredom, the creature moaned and twitched its head.  _

_ It was frightening to get close. The Uv’eok’s head alone was nearly as large as Theta himself, after all. (He decided he’d call the species ‘Uv’eok’, mostly because it sounded cool). But the giant was, in every sense of the word, gentle. It trusted Theta easily, for reasons he never understood, only slightly turning its head when first approached instead of drawing away.  _

_ At some point in the night, Theta suddenly felt, or understood, rather, that this creature was kind. It was the first time he discovered that appearances, no matter how daunting, frightening, or even monstrous, played no role in the quality of one’s heart, and decided to always keep it in the back of his mind.  _

The Doctor made a friend whilst the Master poked at it with a stick. Funny how such a dynamic carried on for centuries more.

“A friend and I found one a while ago that had just escaped from… well... let's just say escaped.” She intentionally regards Kyllan, saving herself from the inclination to color in specifics that Yaz would probably like to know. “They’re kind, I know they are. A bit  _ massive, _ but harmless, unless you rattle them. Granted, rattle anything that big and you’re bound for a few bruises.”

“Doesn’t matter if they’re  _ kind  _ if the Kakovis have sent them here with the intention of dropping our numbers.” Kyllan points out, easing back and propping themself up on one hand while the other swipes a mess of swoopy hair to one side. “If it were a housecat that came through that crack I’d be just as worried. If it’s meant to kill, that’s what it’ll do.”

The Doctor frowns, not entirely convinced. “You don’t have to stay. Doesn’t matter if we’re going to the same place, you can go on without us.” 

Kyllan visibly struggles with the prospect, intrigued by the idea but held back by a flash of unease. “It really is safer not to travel alone. Sure, that thing’s out there,” They gesture vaguely to the space they came from before pointing the opposite direction. “But out there? For all I know it’s worse. I could start walking and be dead in five minutes.” 

“As you like.” Yaz butts in, drawing both parties’ attention. “But while you’re with us, do what the Doctor says. Stay away from that creature if you’re feelin’ antsy.” 

The Doctor nods, equally satisfied to be backed up as she is elated by Yaz’s recognition of the most important factor: that every life holds value. There’s faith there as well, in her command to follow the Doctor’s lead. A trust that doesn’t go unmissed, has the potential to be appreciated, but instead settles remarkably heavy on the Doctor’s shoulders. 

Kyllan hums something noncommittal and dismissive, and the Doctor squints, tilting her head to one side, and suddenly she can’t help herself. 

“How long have you been here, Kyllan?” 

Caught off guard, they meet skeptically narrowed eyes with wonder and bemusement. “Why?” 

“Because I’m curious by nature and I can’t ask  _ why _ you’re here, can I?” 

Kyllan sighs, and a mask seems to slip as they do. Jaw set, a crease etches between hardened eyes that divert their focus to the forest floor. 

“Less than a year.”

“Are you as young as you look?” Yaz inquires, purely benevolent. 

“I wouldn’t know.” They quirk a brow when met with muddled silence. “ _Secunda_ is encased in a teutonic telepathic field that makes you see people as, well, _your_ people. Whichever species is most frequently recorded in your memory. So, I take it I look human.” 

“Like a perception filter?” Yaz looks expectantly to the Doctor. 

“Posh perception filter.” She adds. “That’s clever. Makes it easier to trust one another, I’d expect.” 

“Wow,  _ Secunda  _ might’ve one-upped the TARDIS there.” 

“ _ Actually, _ ” The Doctor lifts a finger. “The TARDIS could do that,  _ if  _ she wanted to. Never a reason to, though. I only take on board the open-minded and the strong-stomached.” 

She gets a whiff of it again — that psychic energy. She forgot all about it. All-encompassing but ever so subtle, and a deep inhale through her nose indicates that the teutonic field is not the source. 

The Doctor looks at Kyllan over a dried leaf held to her nose, sniffing shortly. “What’s that smell?” 

“Dead forest?” 

“No, the energy.” The leaf floats gracelessly to the earth when she releases it. “Psychic. Coppery at the corners, minty in the middle. Know anything about that?” 

Kyllan mulls over the question carefully, uncertain when they speak up. “Could be the pilots.” 

“The  _ pilots?”  _ Yaz echoes. 

“ _ Secunda _ is telepathically maintained, driven, everything. There’s three of them I think, the pilots. They’re Oqruts. Ever heard of them?” 

“Remarkably gifted race of telepaths. I have.” 

“Why pilots? Plural?” Yaz tilts her head. “Because this place is so big?” 

“They rotate. One has to be plugged in round the clock, but yes, this station is  _ huge,  _ so more than a few hours would burn up their brain. They switch out to keep the lands maintained and the station on the move.” 

Yaz furrows her brow. “They do this willingly?” 

“As far as I know.” Kyllan supplies. “Never been to the control center myself. I’m not authorized.” 

“That’s clever. Very clever, actually.” The Doctor hums. “If they’re not doing their piloting against their will, that is.” 

Kyllan only shrugs, clearly accustomed to the information. 

“Right.” The Doctor lets out a long breath, rechanneling her focus to the task at hand. “Now. About the Uv’eok.” 

“What’s the plan?” Yaz leans forward eagerly. “How do we stop it without hurting it?”

“Well, that is the question of the hour.” 

“We should just leave.” Kyllan tries once more, halfhearted this time around. “It’s not our problem. Everyone should be looking after themselves at a time like this.” 

“That’s not how we do things.” The Doctor says seriously. “I just need to get close to it, see what sort of state it’s in. If it’s not being manipulated, maybe I can reason with it.” 

“You want to reason with that  _ monster? _ ” 

“Again, not a monster, and I’ve done it before.” 

“And how did that end exactly?” 

“With a stern telling off when I got home. My friend threw me under the bus.” 

Kyllan mumbles something noncommittal and Yaz’s mouth falls open. 

“Wait, this happened when you were a—” 

“—Shh.” 

“What?”

“ _ Shh. _ ” The Doctor raises a finger to her lips. 

_ Crunch.  _

It’s soft, it’s distant, and neither of the others seem to hear it. 

_ Crunch.  _

A branch is carelessly snapped in half from somewhere in the dark. Yaz and Kyllan straighten. 

“Was that…” Kyllan pales. 

“ _ Shh _ .” Yaz, captivated by the ghost of a sound, backs up the Doctor’s sincerity with a mimicked index finger pressed to her lips. Kyllan slams their jaw shut. 

The Doctor lowers her hand, slowly, eyes trained on the dusky overgrowth, and rises to her feet. 

That growl, that cry again. Hollowed and distraught, beseeching, yearning. 

Yaz and Kyllan flinch, while the sting of tears threatens the corners of the Doctor’s eyes. 

_ Crunch. Crunch. Crunch —  _

A pair of glistening yellow eyes are caught in the moonlight, sparkling with uncertainty. Looming from a greater height. 

The shadows part, and the Doctor’s lips twitch. 

“Well, aren’t you a beauty?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos always appreciated!! Might post the next chapter early if anyone's feeling impatient. (it's me, i'm feeling impatient) I'm still struggling with later chapters at the moment, so let me know if you're enjoying this so I can kickstart myself a bit!!


	6. Point and Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Sorry again!! I've got some massive writer's block at the moment and didn't want to lose too much buffer.

The Uv’eok stands at the edge of the clearing, outlined by overgrowth and dotted with starlight, rumbling pants slapping waves of heat against Yaz’s skin. 

She didn’t get a good look at it before, but it really is a  _ massive  _ thing. More than twice Yaz’s height, poised like a scraggly gorilla, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. 

The Doctor speaks in a whisper, so low that Yaz has to strain to hear her command. “Back away. Slowly.” 

Kyllan does as they’re told with little difficulty, fear-blown pupils never shifting from the creature ahead. Yaz starts backward with a bit more care, a bit more uncertainty, watching the Doctor carefully for any sign that she has  _ any  _ idea what she’s doing. 

“Hey big fella,” She has to crane her neck to meet its eye, speaking with the cadency of a parent to a child on the cliff edge of a temper tantrum. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? Bit toasty, but at least the sky’s looking  _ spectacular,  _ isn’t she?” 

She points her gaze skyward with a cheeky grin and a silent chuckle only making itself known through the bounce of her shoulders. “It’s good at that, no matter where you are in the universe. A constant.” 

Is she… making small talk? 

The Uv’eok shifts on clunky paws, neither advancing nor retreating. 

“Then again, a  _ touch _ of rain might be your best bet at the mo’.” The Doctor winces. “Bit dry.” 

The creature certainly doesn’t talk back — but it does seem to listen. Pointed ears twitching, rippling tension visible beneath coal black fur and relaxing under the Doctor’s easy tone. 

Kyllan takes another step back, and the Uv’eok’s head snaps in their direction, fur on hunched shoulders bristling. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” She keeps her hands beneath her waist, fists clenching with unease as she rocks forward on the balls of her feet. “Only friends here. You’ve had it a bit rough lately, haven’t you?” 

The Uv’eok resettles on the whisper, upper body easing nearer and nearer to the forest floor until it rests on all six limbs. 

“There we are.” The Doctor exhales slowly, shoulders relaxing from an anxious hunch. “Everything’s fine.  _ And  _ dandy, for that matter.” 

Whispered reassurances fade into the background as Yaz’s focus homes in on a flash of orange. It’s only in the corner of her eye at first, dismissible, until she unwittingly locates the source. There, behind the Uv’eok’s scarred left ear and embedded in a raw spot of skin, is a silver tab with a miniature bulb pulsing away. 

“Doctor?” Yaz keeps her voice level and barely loud enough to be heard, earning only a dismissive behind-the-back wave. “Doctor, what’s that flashing light?” 

She can sense Kyllan tensing next to her, picking up on their itch to flee, while the Doctor carefully tilts her head to get a better angle. 

“I don’t…” 

The flashing goes stagnant, then turns blood red. 

The Uv’eok stiffens, each of its muscles going taut and rigid, and Yaz thinks it might rise. Instead, fur bristling, it drops its head low to the ground and growls a warning. 

A  _ clear  _ warning. 

And then it’s lunging. 

The Doctor, Yaz and Kyllan all split off in different directions in the nick of time, the space they abandoned filled with a hefty thud and the sound of claws sinking deep into dry earth. Yaz circles around, sprinting to the Doctor’s side until her hand is being snatched and she’s dragged out of immediate harm.

“New plan.” The Doctor’s voice barely raises from its whisper but is tight with anxiety, close to Yaz’s ear with insistent eyes fixed on Kyllan where they jitter from the other edge of the clearing. “ _ Run. _ ” 

And they do, in an unsystematic formation, nearly stumbling over one another in the dark and in their haste. Yaz’s hand clamps tighter in the Doctor’s when they’re nearly ripped apart by Kyllan’s scramble to reach the front of the line. 

“I told you!” Kyllan howls, loud and insensitive, and the Uv’eok roars in discomfort from behind them. 

The Doctor doesn’t waste her breath telling them to keep their voice  _ down,  _ just keeps running, keeps Yaz pinned to her side. 

Until Kyllan gets a stitch in their side, Yaz trips over a fallen branch, and their pursuer closes the gap. 

The Uv’eok gets temporarily pinned between two narrow tree trunks, forcing broad shoulders through the opening until the trees buckle to its will. Still, it buys them the time needed to regroup, but instead of running, the Doctor faces the creature head-on. 

Yaz almost reaches for her hand again, desperate to draw her out of harm’s way, until she catches sight of that light again — dangerous red but a chilling memory, flashing orange once more. The Uv’eok ceases its pursuit, head ducked close to the ground with fatigued pants that rustle the loose hairs protruding from Yaz’s bun and sting her eyes. She winces, but holds her stance. 

Unease rests heavy on all parties. The newfound quiet and stillness is unnerving, uncertain. The itch to flee is still ever so present; Yaz’s legs tremble with it, and sweat slicked palms form tight fists at her sides. But the Doctor doesn’t move, so neither does she. 

“I know you don’t want to hurt anyone.” The Doctor raises her hands slowly, a cautious  _ settle down  _ gesture accomplishing nothing of the sort. The Uv’eok shifts, rumbles something pained low in its throat despite the Doctor’s low voice as the orange light pulses away, claws curling into the leafy layer coating the ground. “Someone’s forcing you to be dangerous, but we both know you’re not. You can fight it. You don’t have to listen to them.” 

The Uv’eok huffs, chin nearly touching the ground, all six limbs bristling with agitation. The tab behind its ear seems to be the root of its hostility, so if they can remove it, it should calm down, right? 

The Doctor seems to be thinking the same thing, because her eyes keep darting that way. Her position will shift, as if she’s thinking about advancing, then drawing back in on herself when the Uv’eok growls. 

The sound isn’t as frightening now that Yaz knows the creature is acting against its own will. It resonates with sorrow,  _ reluctance,  _ as clunky paws shuffle with uncertainty. Beady eyes narrowed into slits, blinking sluggishly, rumbling breaths slowly evening out. 

“That’s it.” The Doctor soothes, braving the smallest of steps forward. The Uv’eok doesn’t retreat. 

The Doctor moves in slow motion, one hand already outstretched and readied to pluck the offending tab from the creature’s skin, whispering reassurances, forcing an encouraging smile. 

Orange dissipates, and for one final time, bright red stands stark against dusky black. 

Kyllan gasps, and against all reason, against all instruction, takes off running. On their own. 

And the Uv’eok hurls itself after them.

Yaz nearly shouts something rude and flabbergasted _ ,  _ because Kyllan, expectedly, is an idiot, and their own idiocracy puts them in exclusive harm’s way. 

The Doctor, wide-eyed and scrambling, snatches Yaz’s hand and takes off through the trees. Yaz can just about make out the slick fur on the Uv’eok’s back, glistening in the starlight, dulled by the surrounding dark. 

And then everything happens a bit too quickly to follow. 

The pursuit in front of them comes to a loud, chaotic halt, full of screams and subsequent howls of pain from both parties, and Yaz forgets not to shout. 

“ _ Kyllan! _ ” 

Shadows part, a stillness settles in, and the Uv’eok, hunched and low and twitching its head, steps to the side. 

And there, embodied by starlight and dirtied with soil and blood, is Kyllan’s body. 

Unmoving. 

And making no move to rise. 

Wordless, Yaz backpedals aimlessly, shoulder crashing into the Doctor’s who wobbles from the impact — but takes no action. 

Yaz’s frigid eyes settle on her starlit features, more out of instinct than intent. A safe place to rest her gaze, a source of reassurance, the gateway to answers. The source of stability.

But the Doctor is statue-still, a bystander. Expression slack, stunned, disbelieving. Fixed into place like her boots are glued to the earth, rendering her incapable. 

And it’s one of the most frightening things Yaz has ever seen. 

Yaz finds herself watching Kyllan’s body, waiting —  _ waiting.  _

Their limbs don’t shift. Their chest doesn’t rise, doesn’t fall. 

“No…” 

Her voice is no louder than a whisper, barely audible even to herself, but the Uv’eok snaps its head in her direction. Yaz feels its eyes boring straight through her own. 

And then it’s hurling itself gracelessly towards them, and Yaz can do nothing but watch. 

* * *

Kyllan. 

Kyllan? 

No, they can’t be… they can’t actually be _dead,_ can they?

When the Uv’eok turns, it happens in slow motion. The light behind its ear flashes once more but maintains a warning red. 

Yellow eyes sift through the dark, settle on the travelers, and burn with ferocity. 

_ No, no, no.  _

The Doctor’s good with time. She’s good with manipulating and reconstructing it into a way that serves her purpose, and that’s what she does now — slows it down. Remarkably _.  _

Time becomes an ocean manifested in the air. Currents of now and never wave in her periphery, waft against her skin like the kiss of an easy dawn wind. It’s a downgrade from the stormroom in her mind that she cowers in when lightning bolts of helplessness strike her skull. Whether she’s losing control with age or simply being slow, time is reluctant to bow to her commands entirely. Nearly still, but not still enough, figures moving in slow motion through an invisible atmosphere of molasses, and the Doctor realizes two things: 

The Uv’eok is _ ,  _ by appearance, approximately three seconds from colliding with herself and Yaz, red light pulsing brighter,  _ faster — _

Her only plan… her  _ only plan — _ is the sonic screwdriver, a heavy option currently wielded in her right hand. A potentially catastrophic choice, a last resort only just placed on the table. She doubts the Uv’eok’s delicate ears would withstand the unforgiving pitch of the sonic on a  _ normal  _ setting, let alone wherever her cognitive link with the device subconsciously places the decimal. 

She doesn’t have time — she doesn’t have  _ time.  _ The Uv’eok has crossed half the distance. The Uv’eok, kind and warm, considerate and  _ kind.  _ They’re  _ kind,  _ she doesn’t want to —

The Doctor blinks, and time is no longer under her jurisdiction. 

The Uv’eok roars mid-lurch, and Yaz shields her face. The Doctor points and thinks. 

* * *

Forearms pressed over her eyes, Yaz feels the towering encompassment of a shadow give way to the sound of a body thumping against the earth with a heavy crunch.

When she drops her arms and opens her eyes, the Uv’eok is motionless at her feet. 

Startled, she hurls herself backward, stumbling over herself in the process with the back of one hand pressed against her mouth. “Oh...” 

The Doctor’s arm is still outstretched. A white-knuckled grip around the sonic doesn’t loosen, only draws her stagnant, disbelieving gaze. 

The Uv’eok is dead. 

The Doctor still hasn’t moved, still hasn’t managed as much as a glance up, and Yaz focuses on calming herself down as she gives her friend a moment to breathe, a moment to stabilize.

She doesn’t. Stock still, swallowing audibly around a lump in her throat, the Doctor only stares at the sonic in her hand. Yaz takes the liberty of placing a much steadier one on her arm to lower it, squeeze it insistently, and guide her backward.

She’s shaking, Yaz notices. Arm stiff beneath her palm, tensed and jerky in her cooperative movements, and Yaz feels compelled to take hold of her hand and give it a gentle, grounding squeeze. “Doctor?” 

She blinks a couple of times, then finally meets Yaz’s eye with a hazel cacophony of something anguished. This is the second time Yaz has seen this look on her today, but it’s fiercer this time. More of a struggle, a reluctance to accept the reality at her feet and what lay beyond. 

“Doctor.” 

Nothing. 

_ “Doctor.”  _

* * *

_ Doctor.  _

There’s a lot going on in her head right now, a brew of extrinsic emotions and hyperfixations resonating through every fragment of her existence. Yaz’s voice is not among them. 

No, she’s far too trained on the corpses at her feet. 

At her hand.

This was her fault.

There weren’t many unpredictable moving parts in the proceeding minutes. In fact there were only two: The Uv’eok, and Kyllan, who she’d only just met that evening. Kyllan, who she didn’t take the time to properly analyze, understand and work around. Kyllan, whose carelessness the Doctor failed to identify, laid the foundation for a horrific ending to an otherwise eventful story. 

A wrong ending. This is wrong, this is  _ wrong.  _ She can’t have let another die already, but she did. First Benja, sweet and  _ reluctantly  _ hopeful Benja, along with nearly half of Sector 9, and now this? It feels like she’s only just got here, and she’s off to a shattering start. 

She’s better than this, isn’t she? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. No one  _ had  _ to die. 

The screech of the sonic has taken up temporary residence deep in her ears and seems to be making a home in a steadily darkening corner of her subconscious. Worse than that was the wail of the Uv’eok, when the sound pierced straight through its eardrums and skewered its brain. At least, that’s what she imagines it felt like. Her imagination ramps up every potential component and twists it into marring visuals that only worsen the tightness in her chest. She still hears its body thumping to the earth as she lifted her thumb off the button atop the sonic. ( _ Why did she use the sonic? Why is this where ‘pointing and thinking’ landed her?)  _

Maybe she should have never promised Benja she’d be able to save  _ Secunda.  _ Maybe that’s why this feels like such a failure, such a  _ disgrace —  _ when she’s well acclimated with fatality. It was a tactical error, perhaps, born from desperation and bred from fear. A fear that she wouldn’t be enough on her own, that she needed that extra accountability — that  _ pressure  _ to follow through for the people that needed her. As if her own open, fractured hearts weren’t coercion enough. 

But no, it's far simpler than that. For a change. 

The Doctor is angry with herself. 

The Doctor knows she’s better than this. 

_ What does better mean, exactly?  _ She asks herself, except it doesn’t sound like herself. It doesn’t sound respectfully argumentative or rooted in a quest for growth. Instead, the question fills her head with a surge of insanity and a nauseating smirk. It sounds, once again, like him.  _ Him.  _

_ Really, you’ve been alive for longer than you can remember,  _ plus  _ a few millennia, and you still always find a way to get it wrong. Why is that, do you think?  _

A sensible ping insists that it’s because she's not perfect. Lifetimes of experience state that no one wins every time, eons remind her that all she can do is her best.

An ache deep in her chest taking the form of shame and sorrow says, louder than all, that this isn’t her best. 

And she believes it.

_ You’ve set yourself quite the standard, my dear. Think you can live up to it? _

She has to. She doesn’t have a choice. 

_ Oh, there’s always a choice. Suppose we’ll see what you choose in the end.  _

What does that even mean? 

Her imagination is getting finicky. 

Yaz is still talking to her. Yaz is still present, still clinging like a shadow and she’s saying — something. Yaz is still there, and therefore, sooner or later, the Doctor is gonna have to snap back into gear. She doesn’t mean to tune her out, and as reality reasserts itself around her she actually has the space to feel a bit bad about it. 

She’s not sure if she manages to right her frown, but she stands a bit straighter and finds it in herself to meet Yaz’s eye.

Time to move on.    
  


* * *

“ _ Doctor!”  _

“Hmm?” She snaps back almost literally, with a quick turn of the head and the sudden widening of her eyes as if she’d forgotten Yaz was there.

The contrast is sudden, unnerving, and the whiplash leaves Yaz struggling to string the words in her head into words spoken aloud. 

“What do we do now?” 

The question isn’t immediately answered, but the Doctor seems to have already picked one out. 

After what feels like an eternity of her friend staring straight through her with unreadable features, the Doctor clears her throat. 

“We keep going.”

Yaz’s brow plummets. “We…” She puts only one additional step between herself and the bodies. They draw her reluctant eye like a particularly gruesome scene in a horror film, and no matter how much she wants to look away, she’s suddenly finding it difficult. “We’re just gonna leave them?”

“As opposed to?” Her tone is remarkably level, impressively straight-forward, and while Yaz narrows her eyes in a last-ditch attempt to read the Doctor’s unreadable mind, she has no sensible response. 

Yaz finds herself shifting from heel to heel with an ever-increasing sense of unease, an intuition that the Doctor is masking more than Yaz might ever comprehend. It’s a tad mesmerizing, her ability to flip a switch like that, and when her friend turns heel and Yaz is left with no choice but to follow her into the night, she finds herself staring curiously at the back of her head, and never manages to quell the apprehension. 

* * *

  
  


They’ve been walking for a while.

And the Doctor’s gone quiet again. 

It irks Yaz at first, the brooding. The stone-cold silence that’s filled to the brim with the Doctor’s overactive mind that might as well be speaking out loud. Yaz knows what she’s thinking, what she’s  _ doing.  _ She gets herself trapped in these spells sometimes when things go a bit too far to the left, and it gets to a point where it’s impossible to hide. It’s nothing new, the spells are just — worse somehow? Yaz doesn’t — no —  _ can’t _ understand, because the Doctor won’t talk to her. 

Not really. 

By the time twenty minutes have passed of following blindly in her footsteps, it goes from irksome to hurtful.  _ Why  _ won’t the Doctor talk to her? Does she not trust her, or simply not hold Yaz to a high enough standard for her to be worth confiding in? 

Highly unlikely that it could be something that simple. 

She can’t stop thinking about the Doctor’s confession that she’s trying to do ‘better’. What does that even mean? She’s already the best person Yaz has ever met, and the standard is as high as it can be. She can’t come up with a thing that could be done for the universe that the Doctor hasn’t done already.

_ That’s  _ what Yaz doesn’t understand. 

When thirty minutes have gone by and Yaz has finally registered that the Doctor can’t  _ possibly  _ know where she’s going, hurtful regresses back into worry, because the Doctor hasn’t been right since she was rescued, and Yaz knows it. 

And what can she do about that at the moment besides be a good friend? 

And keep her blatant unsteadiness in mind.

After, of course, she pulls out her phone light and unfolds the map of the station to ensure the Doctor hasn’t led them half an hour into a very unhelpful direction. They’ve emerged from the forest now, and the grassy rises and dips in the fields ahead render long distance unreadable. 

Steering them a bit to the left without a spoken word, Yaz taps on her messages when she realizes she hasn’t read them since she left home. 

How long has she been away? No more than a day, surely, but the disorderly conduct of time she’d grown accustomed to onboard the TARDIS in earlier days is no longer a part of the picture. Time, she assumes, is moving in a straight line on  _ Secunda,  _ and one full day is evidently long enough for her mum to ask how long she thinks she’ll be away. 

Yaz’s thumbs hover above her keyboard, following the Doctor’s aimless lead in her periphery as she mulls over a response. She never got around to  _ explaining  _ the Doctor -- not properly, at least. To her family, the Doctor is no more than Yaz’s socially awkward friend that went missing for two weeks under unexplainable circumstances. Unexplainable, because Yaz could never bring herself to even  _ attempt  _ to explain them, so she always dismissed the heart-wrenching memory with an  _ I don’t want to talk about it  _ whenever her family would pry. Thank the stars she didn’t have to keep up that facade for long. 

_ When you coming home, sweetheart?  _

She’s still just staring at text sent hours before, surveying her options. She doesn’t know when, exactly, and with the TARDIS temporarily out of the picture there’s no guarantee she can turn up a few hours after she left. Typically she’d let messages like these slide, knowing that if they could manage to return to earth before it was ever sent, she’d have no obligation to respond. 

And she can’t work excuses anymore. Her family knows her ‘top secret’ missions are a thing of the past. 

Yaz sighs, and just puts her phone away. 

They trudge up a steep incline, a hill so protruding that Yaz can’t see what lay on the other side. Her calves are already burning halfway up, slowing her down, while the Doctor appears expectedly unaffected. It’s her that reaches the top first, stalling at the peak with hands in her pockets as she waits for Yaz to catch up.

The land is flat from here on out, as far as Yaz can see. Presumably artificially trimmed grass creates a sea of dull green with patches of beige few and far between. The air feels just as thin and dry and sticky and  _ uncomfortable  _ as it did before _ ,  _ and Yaz swipes at the sweat beading on her brow with the back of her hand.

At the base of the valley, encircled by chipped bricks and broken cinder blocks that form a sorry-looking barrier, is what Yaz assumes to be Sector 8. 

“Thought it’d be bigger.” 

Yaz glances the Doctor’s way, the sound of her voice akin to a breath of fresh air after tense minutes in deep waters. It should be a relief to hear that familiarly flippant cadence once again, to watch her hands slide out of her pockets as she rises to her full height like a vessel once again embodied by a living soul, a walking corpse brought to life. Business as usual, Yaz could say, if it didn’t feel so  _ wrong.  _ Where does she go when the light leaves her eyes like that? How does she snap back into position so effortlessly? 

They should be talking about what happened. 

“What’s with the wall?” 

“Doesn’t look new.”

“Doesn’t look old, either.” Yaz takes the lead down the hill, the fatigue she’s placed on the backburner reigniting full force and  _ begging  _ her to have a rest. “Just a bit…” 

“Wonky?” The Doctor agrees. “Probably a dodgy attempt to keep the Kakovis out.” 

“Dodgy’s the word.” Yaz leaps onto flat earth. Even from a distance, the wall doesn’t appear to stand much taller than Yaz’s head. “Doesn’t look very helpful.” 

“Only so much they can do, I suppose.” 

There’s no gate, no opening, no breach of any sort in the crumbling heaps of cement. Yaz can just about see over the top if she stands on her tip-toes, using the edge of the highest brick to leverage herself upwards, and the act causes a miniature avalanche to spill down to her feet. 

She and the Doctor jump out of the way in just enough time to spare a sore foot or two, but the crumbling sound is loud and prominent against the ghostly quiet of the surrounding valley. When Yaz lifts her gaze to peer through the accidental gap, there’s not one, but  four  guns pointed right at their faces. 

“Um, hi.” Yaz takes an instinctive step back, hands held warily and innocently above her waist. “Doctor?” 

“Evening, gentlemen!” Carefree and unconcerned, the Doctor’s smile is deceivingly broad. “So much for not being met with hostility. What’s with the guns?” 

“Who are you?” A young man steps forward, dusted but otherwise unmarred hand curling tighter around a blaster while his comrades hold their position. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, doubt you’d believe me if I said sight-seeing. Not much sight to  _ see  _ 'r ound these parts, is there?” The Doctor sweeps a wide, pointed glance across her surroundings. “I’m the Doctor, this is Yaz. Put those away, please and thank you.” 

“You’re not from around here.” The man states harshly, raising the blaster an inch higher with steady hands to stare down the scope. “You’re with them.” 

“Assuming by ‘them’ you mean the Kakovis, no, we’re not, actually.” Yaz says with more impatience than trepidation. “We’re on our way to the control center.” 

“And a little birdy told us you lot would be hospitable if we needed it. Been a bit of a long night, could use some R&R.” 

“Well keep walking.” The man loses none of his tight edge, but after scanning them head to toe and deeming the travelers unarmed, he lowers his weapon. The others follow suit. “We have no reason to trust you.” 

“And I get that, believe me, I do.” The Doctor braves a step forward, and the man takes a step back. She sighs, adopting a lighter cadence. “But we can’t exactly save your station from the interdimensional bounty hunters if we’re keeling over less than halfway to our destination, can we?” 

“Can’t exactly... what?” 

“Mate, we’re just trying to help.” Yaz’s shoulders sag. “And we’re  _ really  _ tired.” She is, at least. The Doctor’s exhaustion seems less bone-deep, more emotionally centered, emerging when it pleases and receding at her command. 

“Arrived by accident, but really _ , seriously,  _ we’re just here to help.” The Doctor assures. “I’d be happy to share the gory details if you need them, but preferably on the  _ other  _ side of the wall. Won’t step foot in there before you give the go-ahead, though. I take it you’re the head honcho around here.” 

The man looks ready to disagree, naturally perturbed by the offering of hope he can’t be certain will follow through. Yaz doesn’t blame him, and she knows the Doctor won’t either. 

His anxiety seems to ebb though, just enough to take a step back, just enough to holster his weapon. A beat later, and he supplies a shallow nod.

Yaz could cry, she’s so relieved. She doesn’t even need a bed, she could fall asleep in the dirt in seconds given the opportunity. The formation of four parts to beckon the strangers onward, and Yaz and the Doctor awkwardly step over broken stone to climb through the opening in the wall. 

“Really need to come up with a more efficient way of explaining all that.” The Doctor mumbles close to Yaz’s ear, and with heavy legs carrying her onwards and patience wearing thin in her washed-out state, Yaz can only wholeheartedly agree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENTS AND KUDOS ALWAYS APPRECIATED :) Next chapter WILL be out within a week


	7. Sector 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so this is probably my favorite chapter of this fic so far. Bit of a long one but we're getting closer to the nitty gritty stuff. If you think THIS is angsty, then boy oh boy. Good luck!

She keeps meaning to ask someone how long the night cycles are here, and she never does, as stranger after stranger comes and goes while the Doctor sits beneath foreign stars, back against the base of a recently planted but impressively robust tree. She wonders if whatever she’s resting against  _ actually  _ looks (and feels) like a cadonwood tree from her home, bar the shining silver leaves replaced with a far duller tone. Like a tainted memory, or a darkened perception. Perhaps  _ Secunda’s  _ teutonic filter is a bit more intuitive than Kyllan suggested. Maybe this tree is someone else’s sentimental lamp post or A.I. armchair.

Sector 8 is a definite step up from their first stop. It’s bigger, to start with. The feeble attempt at a safety barrier wraps around the circumference in a jagged circle, housing dozens of living structures and exchanging of services. The sector operates in its own orderly bubble, organized and communally respected, and everyone seems to get along just fine, including the soldiers. There’s only the four of them, including… Alec? She’s pretty sure that was his name. He mentioned it as an afterthought as he gave her and Yaz the briefest of overviews of the sector. She walked the perimeter later on, taking in the sights for herself and reveling in the veil of peace.

It’s a bit of a relief, the blessed moment of silence following the cacophony of the preceding hours. Yaz has long since retired to a kind stranger’s offering of a bed, the soldiers have gone back to their soldiering, and the secluded civilization goes about their nightly lives. They’re quite active, so the night cycles must be long for some. How many different species dwell in this section, she wonders, let alone the entire station? 

“Harlen will have a fit if he sees you using his tree as a lounge chair.” 

The Doctor’s brow shoots to her hairline as she whips her head around to the source of the voice, and finds Alec, off the clock and at ease, standing a few paces to her left. 

He’s interesting, this one. Tall, fit for the job at first glance, even has the neatly trimmed haircut to match. But atop youth rounded cheeks are an even more candid set of laser blue eyes, sprightly and boyish. The Doctor’s never been good at guessing one’s age, but teutonic filter be damned, she knows a child’s eye anywhere. 

“Ah. So it is just a tree.” She doesn’t sit forward, instead tilts her head back against the scratchy trunk to squint at the top. “It’s quite comfy, so I’ll choose to believe Harlen’s the understanding sort. Who exactly is Harlen?”

“Not the understanding sort.” Alec huffs. “But more specifically, my granddad. Lives right over there.” He crosses his arms comfortably with a nod towards a battered brick house to his left, closing the barrier of uncertainty between himself and the Doctor by a couple of steps. 

“So the family business is how you landed yourself here, I suppose?” 

“...Sort of.” Alec doesn’t elaborate, and the Doctor doesn’t push. 

He’s nice. Laid back. Easy, once you gain his trust. It didn’t take very long; only the  _ here to help  _ speech and a couple of encouraging words from Yaz. She was good with him, calm from the start despite her natural fatigue-fueled vexation, and was responsible for sealing his, the other soldiers, and the subsequent bystanders’ confidence in the end. 

This kid has probably seen his fair share of battles, but something in those icy eyes sparkles with an innocence she doesn’t miss, and she can’t help but wonder how much of his proud chin and squared shoulders are just for show. 

“How long are the night cycles here?” She asks, pointedly separate from the questions she’s dying to ask. She’s not here to make friends. 

“Seventeen hours. Same for daylight, though, so it balances itself out for those that don’t sleep much.” 

“Not much of a sleeper are you, then?” 

“Nah, far too much to do.” Alec’s chin tilts a little higher, but it doesn’t hold for long. 

“What, here? Took me less than twenty minutes to walk the perimeter of this place.” 

His brow drops a bit, teetering on the edge of offense but settling for uncertainty. “You… you do know how bad off we are at the moment, right?” His arms fall to his sides. “ _ Secunda’s  _ got a leaky roof. Those cracks come as they please, where they please, without order or mercy. We’ve got to stay alert at all times.” 

“Pretty sure if you have a kip then  _ one  _ of the hundred-something people living in this sector will alert you one way or another.” The Doctor ducks her head, crinkled eyes holding his carefully. A beat of hesitation is all it takes to seal her theory. 

“Anyways,” Alec sniffs uncomfortably. “If you’re heading to the control center we can send you with some hydration packs, sustenance bars, all that. It’ll take you at least a couple of days, and it’s not exactly jumper weather at the moment.” 

“Yeah, what’s up with the heat?” It doesn’t bother her that much, but she notices it every time she has to pry sticky strands of hair from her forehead. “Pilots forget to pay the air conditioning bill? Or did they get their inspiration for summer temperature from an Iranian desert?” 

“There are no seasons here. It’s usually just… comfortable.” Alec shrugs like he’s never really thought about it. “I could ask them about it.” 

“You have contact with the control center?” The Doctor lifts her brow, intrigued. “Thought it was just one-way.” 

“No,” Alec wavers. “I was just thinking…”

“...Thinking?”

“That I should come with you.” He clears his throat, hands twitching at his sides. “It’s not safe out there, or anywhere, really. If you are, as you say, our ‘only chance’ at defeating the Kakovis, probably best you make it there alive. I can help.” 

Ah, yes. Beneath that outer shell of sense and reason is a layer of giddy hope betraying itself through quick speech and eager eyes. Proper grown-ups don’t get excited over the prospect of danger like that — not that she’s an expert on the subject, or can even relate to them, because the Doctor’s not much of a proper grown-up herself. This kid, though, clearly, is on the hunt for a tougher job, and the Doctor doesn’t even begin to entertain his offer. 

“I thought you wanted to look out for your sector?” She tries. “What happened to Alert at All Hours Alec?” 

He grits his teeth, jaw shifting beneath tan cheeks. “I’ll be more useful in getting you two to the control center in one piece. I want to help.” 

“Yaz and I can manage just fine, but thanks.” 

“You can’t stop me if I decide to go myself.” 

“Sure, but what’s your plan?” The Doctor crosses her arms, still looking up at him from her place against the off-brand cadonwood. “Even I don’t have a plan.” 

Alec blinks, dumbstruck. “How don’t you have a plan?” 

“I tend to come up with them along the way. Just how I roll.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Typically works out in the end. I’ve got a solid ninety-seven-percent success rate.” 

Alec just shakes his head, bowed and heavy, struggling to let the subject slide. “ _ Secunda’s _ only hope, eh?”

Hinges creak as an unseen door swings open and the Doctor whips her head around to the source; an elderly man slightly bent at the waist, standing in his doorway, jabbing a beige walking cane in her direction with aggressive vigor. 

“Get off. My.  _ Tree! _ ” He slams the tip of his cane into the earth, scowling with daunting caterpillar brows. “The  _ only  _ tree in Sector 8 and you’d think people would have a bit more respect. I planted it myself, you know! Been nursing the little beastie for the past two years and I won’t have no hooligans scuffing her up.” 

The Doctor widens her eyes, only mildly perturbed, gaze lifting to examine the heights of the truck. “Quite impressive for a two year old.” 

“I dug it up after it had already grown, idiot. Now  _ get off my tree. _ ” 

“Sorry! Sorry.” The Doctor springs to her feet, convinced. “Sorry, I’m off the tree.” 

The old man only huffs. 

“I’m the Doctor, by the way. Don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Don’t care.” He takes a step back on boney legs without breaking eye contact, sealing the visual off with a slammed door. 

_ Tetchy,  _ the Doctor thinks, brushing the dirt off the back of her coat. When she looks back to Alec, he’s wearing half a smirk. 

“Told you.” 

“That’s Harlen, I take it?” The Doctor pushes her hair out of her eyes. “Bit rude.” 

“You haven’t even scratched the surface.” Alec chuckles, but it’s half-hearted, distracted, and the Doctor guesses he’s gearing up to finish his proposition. 

She acts before he has the chance, aiming for the humble home up ahead where Yaz snoozes away but stopping just Alec’s shoulder, hand on his upper arm, tone serious but sensitive. “Stick to your guns, Alec. Literally, not metaphorically. And I usually don’t say that — not the bit about the metaphors, I mean the guns. Big fan of metaphors, me — and I’m quite  _ anti  _ gun if I’m being honest, but…” She’s losing him; she can see his eyes narrowing, disoriented by her rambling, and the Doctor takes a deep breath. “You’re doing a good thing here, Alec. Keep looking after your own. They need you more than we do.” 

He holds her eye steady, head bowed a fraction to make up for his advantage in height. Lips pinched, sealing an argument behind them until it dies away, Alec eventually gives the faintest of nods. 

The Doctor smiles, satisfied, and gives him a firm pat on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go wake up Yaz. She’ll have a fit if I let her sleep much longer.” 

“Nine hours is enough of a boost, for any species.” Alec smiles halfway, a cross between lingering disappointment and the beginnings acceptance, and the Doctor leaves him to it. 

He reminds her a bit of Yaz, in a couple of ways. The ambition, the courage, and the subsequent temptation to bite off more than he can chew. The difference between him and Yaz, though, is that Yaz trusts the Doctor entirely, leaves the reins in her grips when facing down the impossible as a duo. Her kindness, compassion and all other commendable traits aside, Yaz is a significant asset to any situation, on any day, because she recognizes her humanity, and makes a point to enhance it rather than toss it in the bin. 

She shouldn’t make any hasty judgments, but after scattered conversations throughout the evening with the young soldier, the Doctor is fairly sure Alec is more the type to chase an enemy off a cliff without stopping at the edge. 

The Doctor knocks quietly on the door, and there’s Marlene, the sweet old woman who gave up her resting place so Yaz could have a place to kip. All smiles and open arms, she waves the Doctor inside and directs her to a cozy, curtain-shielded sleeping area where the Doctor can already hear Yaz snoring away. 

She’s sprawled out on her stomach with both arms strewn above her head, long hair freed from its bun and cascading disorderly across her shoulders. The Doctor takes the time to smile, because it was the little things, the insignificant occurrences of human domesticity that she missed while she was gone. Just as much as the adventures, the  _ victories,  _ if not more. 

“Yaz.” 

She hums, stirs almost imperceptibly, then stills again. 

“Oi. Yaz, Nap time’s over.” 

Her eyes open, half-lidded and heavy, pupils shrinking under the bedside lamplight when the Doctor mercilessly flips it on. 

“Mm, how long was I out?” Yaz is rolling over and easing sluggish legs off the bed before she’s even properly awake, words slurred and brow furrowed in the afterglow of slumber. 

“Longer than you’d like, probably. Got a bit caught up with a comfy tree.” 

“This bed beats it. Bet you anything.” Yaz stifles a yawn against the back of her hand before bending over to guide her heels into her boots. “Everything quiet?” 

“Agonizingly. We should be getting on soon, though. Sleep well?” 

“Amazin’. Yesterday did me in a bit.” 

Commiseration flattens the Doctor’s lips, but the selfish inclination to evade certain topics quirks them up playfully. “Do I really tire you out that much?” 

Yaz, unaffected, jabs back. “You can be a bit of a handful.” 

“Well, good thing you’ve got two hands. Come on.” 

By the time they step outside, the glow of an artificial sun is beginning to creep its way up the horizon. Harlen tends to his tree, a child in the distance shouts  _ ‘You’re it!’ _ , Sector 8 goes about its business. Sticky heat still clings to the air like a barnacle, and Yaz is already muttering disapprovals. 

“Is your tree alright, Harlen?” The Doctor calls, a smile audible in her voice that somehow prompts the old man to start shouting again. 

“You could’ve uprooted her!” He croaks, coughing once with the strain and leaning heavily into his cane. “She's not as strong as she looks. Not  _ sturdy enough  _ yet. Do you — do you realize what you could’ve done?” 

“Uprooted her, it sounds like.” 

Harlen goes red in the face, bony fingers winding tighter around his cane. 

“Okay! Okay, sorry, but look, not a scratch on her, right? I won’t touch your tree ever again, Harlen. Cross my hearts.” 

“Yeah? Well, it’ll be your head if you do.” He shifts his attention to Yaz, expression slackening a touch as if he’s only just noticed she’s there before it quickly bounces back. “Goes for you too.” 

“Sir yes sir.” Yaz, clearly, is struggling not to laugh, and the Doctor nudges her with her elbow. 

Harlen turns his back to them with a huff. 

“Doctor!” 

Anxiety piercing Alec’s call whirls the Doctor around like the flip of a switch, and she finds him sprinting towards her with one hand instinctively resting on the holster at his hip. 

“Message from the control center.” He’s out of breath, frantic and frazzled when he stutters to a stop. “Temporal breach detected, and it’s close. Very close.” 

“Temporal breach being a crack in the sky?” Yaz explicates, and Alec nods impatiently. 

“What came through?” The Doctor prompts. 

Alec looks particularly uneasy. “They couldn’t see. Just a flash and they were gone, but the report said the ground beneath the breach was disturbed.” 

“So it’s either faster than a Weeping Angel or it’s underground. Neither are good options, I’ll give you that, but neither is strictly the  _ worst  _ option so we’re gonna focus on that. Right,” The Doctor lets out a short, restless breath. An uneasy breath. Quite possibly even a nervous breath. Why is she nervous? She doesn’t do nervous. She can’t  _ think  _ properly when she’s nervous.

So she tells herself she isn’t, and slips on her mask of confidence. “How close is ‘close’?” 

He shakes his head. “Dunno, but we’re definitely the nearest Sector. Whatever it is will be coming our way.” 

“Then make sure everyone knows. Whether it’s stand or run, everyone here needs to be ready, and  _ I  _ will say the word whenever the time comes.” 

Alec’s expression shifts, eyes crinkling at the corners, anxiety only slightly dampened by a burst of pride that prompts him to deepen his voice. “I’m in command here. You’re just passing through.” 

The Doctor bites the inside of her lip carefully. “It’s not about who’s in command, it’s about our best shot at keeping everyone safe.” 

“And why isn’t that me?” 

“You’re a child playing soldier because you feel like you have to. When I say run, you run, and that’s just how it goes.” 

Her words leave a bitter aftertaste in the air, earning the bewildered glare from Yaz that she easily glosses over. From the way Alec’s pride is visibly snuffed out of his eyes like a candlelight, she’s hit the nail on the head. 

He nods mutely, shoulders hanging low but head forced high. Jaw set and steady, Alec clears his throat and attempts to rise to his own standard, whisking past the Doctor with a mission at the forefront and a compensating determination in ocean eyes. He takes the time to call after Harlen, “Granddad, get inside. We’re on red alert.” 

“We’re always on red alert nowadays,” Harlen grumbles without turning to face him, pinching low-hanging silver leaves between his fingers as if to twist them into shape. “I’m busy.” 

“Granddad.” 

Harlen whirls around on the tip of his cane, the scratchiness of his aged voice doing nothing to ebb the impact of his bite.

“Just because your mother used to command fleets of thousands into innocent territory doesn’t give you the right to  _ tell me what to do. _ It’s her fault you and I are stuck hiding away in this place for the rest of our lives, so stop playing soldier. It’s not her footsteps you should be following in.” 

Alec, rising from agitated to seething, clenches his fists at his sides. “We agreed never to speak about her.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re being irritating. Have been ever since the Kakovis found us. I’m standing right here and finishing my work, and you can go play with your guns.” 

Alec is at a visible loss, jaw shifting stiffly and vein in his forehead bulging with the heat of his grandfather’s words, but he doesn’t waste much more time before stomping away. 

Once he’s stormed off though, occupied with alerting the civilians of oncoming threat, Harlen drops his hand from where it rested on a branch, and sulks away to his home with mutters and grumbles the Doctor can’t make out.

When they’re alone once again, Yaz whirls on the Doctor with urgency stringing her words together quickly. “What’s the plan?” 

Lacking a substantial response, the Doctor picks the first distraction in her line of sight and jogs up to the sector’s outer wall, squinted eyes scanning the valley beyond though she suspects the chances of finding anything are slim. Yaz is an uncertain presence behind her, dithering like a hummingbird in search of a place to land. The Doctor can feel her anxious breaths on the back of her neck, hear the scrape of the heels of her boots shifting along the dust beneath them. Yaz has a tendency to radiate her apprehension when it’s particularly prominent, which isn’t especially often. The Doctor tries not to notice, and tries even harder not to take it personally. 

Plan. Plans are good. But how can you prepare for something unknown? She thought it to be helpful at first, the alert from the control center, because a heads up can go a long way. She thought it would give her time to prepare, space to scheme and articulate the information into something she can use, but her head feels remarkably empty. All she knows to do is wait, and waiting isn’t gonna cut it. 

“Doctor.” 

Alec is back, waving at them over with one hand on the edge of an open front door that she assumes to be his own. She doesn’t spare a beat before jogging over, pointedly long strides putting some distance between herself and Yaz’s contagious anxiety. 

Alec shuts the door behind them when they step inside the tidy, minimalist home. The kitchen and the sitting room are conjoined, and an open backpack sits atop a single-seat dining table with supplies poking out the top. 

“That for us?” Yaz moves to inspect the contents when Alec nods distractedly, confusion forming a line at her brow when she doesn’t recognize the alien substitutes for food and water. 

“Should last you til you get to the control center. If there’s anything else you need, just let someone know.” Alec’s back is to the two of them as he navigates around the minimal furniture in the secluded space until he reaches a cupboard. The Doctor clenches her teeth warily when a vast weapon store is revealed for all to see: blasters, knives, grenades and armor. Alec scoops out a selection and splays it across the kitchen table, slamming the cupboard shut behind him. “Take your pick.” 

The Doctor is already shaking her head before he’s even spoken. “We don’t do weapons. We’ll be fine.” 

“You can’t defend yourself without them. Don’t be daft.” 

“I’m not.” She hardens, bowing up with little patience. “Brains beat bullets. That’s how we do things.” 

“Doctor…” Yaz’s uncertainty takes her by surprise, and her follow up is downright concerning. “Are you sure? Maybe we should put that rule on the backburner for a bit —”

“ _ No. _ ” The Doctor snaps, louder than she intended, and it makes Yaz flinch. She has half a mind to regret her harshness, but there’s no time, no space to be breaking rules at a time like this. Her morals are clear, important as ever, and exist for a reason. 

Yaz doesn’t argue, but has to bite her tongue to keep a rebuttal at bay. 

“Suit yourself.” Alec picks a blaster for himself, larger and more advanced than his previous one. There’s a dial on the side for flicking through various selections of damage, a pricey-looking scope on top, and a barrel that fits against his shoulder like it was made for him. 

“Where’d you even get all this?” 

Alec doesn’t meet her eye, inspecting the blaster’s sturdiness and capability with an eagle eye. “Like you said. Family business.” 

She doesn’t work to unpack that for longer than a moment and casts the remark aside for another time, because that time will come. Alec will be fine, Sector 8 will be fine, and she’ll have plenty of time later to preach her values of pacifism for all who have ears to hear. 

Yaz zips up the backpack and slips it over her shoulders, like a precautionary measure, like she’s expecting them to take off into the hills at the first sign of things going sideways. But no, the Doctor won’t be hospitable to any shape of failure. 

They’re gonna win this one. She has plenty of reasons to believe it. 

And a couple more to fear that she won’t. 

_ Better put on your Big Idea hat, dear. This might be a tricky one.  _

The Doctor shakes her head, and pretends like she didn’t hear him. And she didn’t, not really. Because of course, he’s not actually there. 

Stars, she feels like she’s losing it sometimes. Recently more than ever, which is remarkable. Unbelievable, even. 

She’s fine. She’s got this. 

Everyone will be fine. 

A screech of terror from outside pierces deafeningly through thin brick walls like it came from inside her own head. It’s only Yaz’s wide eyes and Alec’s scowl of determination that confirms that it didn’t, but when the Doctor shifts her wild gaze to the smudged and poorly sealed window, she sees nothing but a frightened crowd. 

“Here we go.” Alec lets out a short but steady breath, weapon clenched tight in both hands, and kicks open his own front door like an irresponsible action hero. 

“Stay inside, Yaz.” The Doctor tries, just to be safe, on the off chance that Yaz will actually abide. 

Yaz, being Yaz, is right behind her when she starts after Alec. “Fat chance.” 

Even when they step outside, there’s no immediate sign of danger. The Doctor scans the space ahead and around with a perplexed frown and a crease between her brows, because something happened, something  _ definitely  _ happened from the way people are pacing, staring at the ground beneath their feet, hopping about as if walking on burning coals. 

“What happened?!” Alec regroups with his fellow soldiers who are working to calm the civilians down, and failing miserably. His voice only slightly stands out above the clamorous chatter, and the Doctor and Yaz push through the crowd until they reach his side. 

“Marlene.” A woman breathes, red hair disheveled and directionless as if she’s been pulling at it in mortification. “She was looking for her daughter, and then she —”

The redhead never finishes her sentence. It happens in a blink, foreshadowed by the paling of her complexion and the widening of disbelieving eyes, then she gets shorter — no, not shorter —  _ lower _ , and when the Doctor glances down, the woman’s shoes are invisible beneath the earth. 

And then, against all reason, the rest of her follows. 

The Doctor is too distracted by the look on her face as she’s yanked underground to pinpoint the force that dragged her into its clutches. Shock —  _ mortification  _ doesn’t even scratch the surface. It’s an unhinged, unrestrained, merciless strike of fear and disbelief that encapsulates her expression, so vibrantly, so  _ loudly,  _ but only for a second. Only for a blink, but the Doctor will remember it for the rest of her lives.

Panic doesn’t waste a beat. 

Cries of horror arise from every individual in the surrounding area. People scatter, mothers snatch their children by the hand and run for their lives, while the Doctor only backpedals in disbelief until she smacks into Yaz’s shoulder. Without looking, she takes her friend’s hand in her own so as not to lose her in the chaos; people keep knocking into them, barrelling past and darting around them in their hurry. 

“ _ What? _ ” Yaz gapes incredulously at the disturbed earth where the redhead stood only moments before, only a ring of displaced dirt encircling the slightest of dips in the ground. “How?” 

Hand mines? No, can’t be. No hands. 

The cacophony of shoes hammering into the earth and hollers for loved ones dissipate into the distance as some people flee to their homes, some stand on piles of rubble or scramble to climb the barricade surrounding the sector. A useless thing either way, but especially now, when the unseen foe can navigate beneath the surface of the earth with the ease of a sea creature in its natural habitat. 

Alec remains, aiming his blaster at the ground with clammy hands and a directionless intention. He spins a frazzled circle, advances one way then retreats another. 

“What the hell is it?” 

Then there’s another scream. 

The Doctor pays attention this go around, because by the time she hears that scream, she knows the poor soul is damned. She’d hate herself for it, for disregarding a life so easily, using their agonizing end as a learning opportunity, if she had the time. 

_ Oh, don’t worry, you’ll have plenty for that later.  _

She swallows hard. 

Covering the entire surface area of a young woman’s tattered boots, is a  _ swarm  _ of some sort of insect; obsidian black, sleek and shining and lined with red, hardly larger than a house roach that works its way in the shadows of a bathroom cupboard. There are dozens at least — creeping up her ankles, and who knows how many more disturbing and displacing the earth beneath her feet. 

And then, with a squeal and a wordless plea — eyes that meet the _ Doctor’s _ with a desperate intensity, an unsupported faith — she’s sucked into the core of  _ Secunda  _ itself. 

“Akira…” Alec’s arms slacken and his blaster thuds weakly into his hip, strokes of a grief-stricken brush slowly painting a showpiece across his face. 

“Back up. Both of you, back away.” The Doctor piques every sense, scours every inch of quiet land as she drags Yaz backward by one hand and beckons urgently with the other for Alec to do the same. Yaz is quite simply awestruck, unconcerned with the space beneath her own shoes, instead analyzing the space the woman stood with a horrified, demanding curiosity. 

Alec is quick to snap back to attention, the darkening ferocity in burning blue eyes doubling, tripping, until his trigger finger twitches and his hands are curling stiffly around his weapon once again. 

And then the inevitable happens; Yaz is turning to face her, and the Doctor’s hearts flutter with a familiar burning. 

“Doctor?” Yaz bounces once on her toes, itching to act, while the Doctor remains virtually lifeless apart from the vice grip on her hand. “Plan? Now would be a good time for a plan.” 

Plan. Plans are good. 

A plan would be really helpful right now. 

Sector 8 is in a frenzy. She can still see some running, hear some slamming doors, as if the grass-woven rugs layering the floors of their homes will offer up any semblance of safety. Some are climbing roofs, only to crumble back down when the flimsy structure gives. A scream reverberates throughout the terrain from somewhere to her left, then another comes from her right. 

A child, separated from his family, stands on a block of cement, knees quivering, knuckles in his mouth as he stares at the ground and waits for it to swallow him whole. 

To the Doctor’s anguish, it nearly does. 

The block begins to shift, and the boy nearly loses his balance. By the time the Doctor blinks, the lower half of the stone is obscured. By the time she’s leaning forward onto the balls of her feet, bracing to run faster than she’s run in  _ years,  _ she notices the warmth of Yaz’s hand is replaced by empty air. 

Yaz crashes into the boy with enough controlled force that they land a safe distance away from his little island, that vanishes beneath the ground the instant they make impact. She has both arms curled around his small frame, securing him as she lands on her back and clutches him to her chest. Winded and dazed, she doesn’t move for an instant except to flinch when the child launches off her torso to run crying for his dad. A man emerges from the chaos, windswept hair shielding half his face but his yelp of relief is clear as day, and Yaz doesn’t take her eyes off the two of them until the boy is safe in his dad’s arms and being carried away to some facade of safety. 

And then she props herself up on her elbows, long, dark hair dirt-caked and disheveled, and she’s gaping at the Doctor with a slack jaw and dark, rounded eyes that, if the Doctor had to guess, are demanding an explanation. 

Alec fires his weapon for the first time, white-hot flashes of energy bolts leaving scorch marks on the level earth that doesn’t react, doesn’t fight back, doesn’t give. Another scream comes from somewhere the Doctor can’t see, and Alec spins around with the bubbling rage of a man undone, unwound, and undertrained. 

He begins to shoot wildly at the ground, in every direction, in every fashion. Marching along the land with irrelevantly ruthless aim as if every spec of dust committed a personal crime against him. A howl of fury bubbles in his throat but is scarcely heard over the pierce of his weapon, the shouts of a fellow soldier in the distance asking what the hell he’s doing before they’re distracted by another cry for help.

When Alec faces the Doctor again, blasts landing a bit too close to her feet, he’s red in the face, glass-eyed and breathing heavily. 

“Alec, stop.” The Doctor raises her hands to gain his attention, and he adheres to her command easily as if he was waiting for it to sound. When his blaster is safely pointed at his own two feet, the Doctor strides towards him and fists her hands in his scratchy shirt at the shoulders. “Get it together.” 

“Get it together?” He snaps, saliva speccing the Doctor’s face in their close proximity. “ _ Get it together?  _ Tell me what the hell to do, not to get it together! Isn’t that the whole point of you?” 

The Doctor quickly drops her hands, stinging, taking a slight step back. Something in her sinks even lower than it already dwelled; she feels the pull, the weight on her shoulders, growing heavier by the nanosecond. Yes, it is. It  _ is  _ the whole point of her. 

“You said you’d say the word, so say the word.” Alec readies his weapon as if it's still of any use, the dangerous flare in his eye both expectant, and challenging. 

“Doctor?” Yaz sounds from behind her, and the Doctor pivots to see her dusting the dirt off her clothes without looking, and she too, is fiercely trained on the Doctor with a pregnant question. 

The Doctor scratches cold fingertips along the inside of her palms. Her head is swimming with so many different scenarios and options and choices and  _ potential outcomes _ that it’s almost vacant entirely, numb and slow, overstimulated and unhelpful. And in the time she’s stood here  _ thinking,  _ the hoard has claimed another victim, and another, and another. 

They can’t fight it if they can’t see it. They can’t run if they don’t know  _ where  _ to run. They can’t stand still because they’ll be found. 

But they have to do something. 

“Run?” Yaz takes the liberty to suggest, ill at ease and lacking her usual confidence as she pushes her hair out of her face. 

It’s as good a suggestion as any, and the Doctor doesn’t have anything better.

“Run.” 

Alec’s tattered boots can be heard thundering against the earth as he bellows commands to evacuate left and right, and at the sound of his voice alone, people come barreling out of their scattered homes like a disorganized stampede. He’s out of sight before long, dead set on scouring every nook and cranny, covering every inch of the sector on his own two legs, and the Doctor has to trust him to succeed. 

Meanwhile, civilians are screaming, and scattered bereaved souls are momentarily stunned to the spot by their sudden loss before getting swept up in the crowd. A handful of people nearly send her and Yaz sprawling in their ruthless haste, and the Doctor is knocked in the shoulder with enough force to spin her around and force her gaze on a howling man clawing vigorously at the dirt with his feet obscured beneath. The Doctor lunges the moment she sees him, but still isn’t quick enough, and is left sprawled on her stomach with readied arms grasping at thin air a beat after the man is plunged into silence. 

The Doctor gapes at the disturbed ground with clenched fists and a maddeningly-wide eyes filled to the brim with regret. She can’t help but slam those fists into the ground, nor suppress the cry of frustration that bubbles from her chest when she realizes she’s failed yet another. 

Another scream sounds from somewhere to her left at the same time that two come from her right. The swarm is quickening, or growing, or both, and her short-circuited synapsis doesn’t stand a chance. 

“Doctor, come on!” Yaz is suddenly kneeling at her side, arms hooking under her own to force her to her feet. There’s a frightening instant where the Doctor’s limbs don’t cooperate, numbness coursing along her skin whilst a fire ignites beneath, dejection momentarily overpowering her drive. She gets it together though, scrambling for footing with Yaz’s impatient aid and allowing herself to be propelled until she’s properly aware enough to take the lead.

“Wait, where’s Harlen?” The Doctor shakes Yaz’s grip off her wrist and spins a frazzled circle, squinting through the chaos to try and catch sight of his house. 

“The old man?” Yaz clarifies, focused eyes fixed on the Doctor’s while her feet still carry her pleadingly backward towards the gap in the unreliable wall created by the first wave of frantic runaways. 

She spots him, the stubborn old soul only just now emerging from his home with agonizingly slow steps that nearly prompt the Doctor to bark an irritated order, until cranky eyes round with concern and she realizes he’s merely searching the thinning herd for his grandson. 

“Alec?” The call comes out as hardly more than a croak, and he tries again with a bit more gusto. “Alec!” 

“Granddad?” 

Alec trips over himself in his haste to cross the gap, shouldering past uncaring civilians and keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Granddad, run!” 

He can’t run, the Doctor knows it, and Harlen is visibly struggling with the prospect as well. He’s a good chunk of distance away, but Alec is even further, and the Doctor finds herself picking up into a jog straight for the dithering old man.

“Harlen, move!” She shouts. 

“You can’t stay there!” Yaz calls. 

The Doctor has closed half the space between them, arms pumping even though she’s restrained from her full speed by the invisible force of dread. Less than half the space now, and then even less. She just has to — 

She trips on the protruding root of Harlen’s precious tree and earns a faceful of traitorous soil. 

A strangled cry sounds from ahead. 

When the Doctor looks up, Harlen is gone, and the space in which he stood inhabits no more than ghostly disturbed dust. 

“No…  _ NO! _ ” Alec reaches Harlen’s house a beat too late and throws himself onto hands and knees. No fancy gun, nor the sharpest of knives are of any use to him now except to use their stiff ends to dig into the dirt, and he’s quick to toss them aside and use his own two hands to claw and tear and  _ demand  _ that the ground return to him what is rightfully his.

It’s of no use, and the Doctor is left slack-jawed and shaken.

When Alec finally stops digging, succumbing to reality with blood-red cheeks and grief-glazed eyes, his head snaps up to face her with the rage of a thousand gods and the blame of the immeasurably wronged. 

Still splayed on her stomach in the dirt, cowering behind a shield of disheveled hair and curling her fingertips as deep into the earth as they’ll go, the Doctor knows she deserves it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all again for being here, this fic is my CHILD and I really appreciate all the kind words :)


	8. Say Something

Many tend to reference the calm before the storm but rarely talk about the illusion of stillness that comes after. 

That’s all this is: an illusion. The quietude of dehydrated valleys that thrive under rays of sunlight providing an apparition of flourishment are no more than a mirage. The persevering stretch of silence that’s been instilled since they fled Sector 8 is not easy, or comfortable, or natural. As Yaz rides in the Doctor’s slipstream with unintentionally soft steps as if to keep her from hearing them, like the slightest scuffle or tiniest disturbance could send her off the edge she teeters on, her heart is clenched in an iron fist of concern. 

Something isn’t right, and it’s no longer a speculation, but a certainty. 

Something’s wrong with the Doctor. 

When they left Sector 8 it wasn’t because they were trying to escape, it was at Alec’s grief-stricken command. Yaz had insisted, nearly even pleaded with the soldier to allow them to stay and help **_—_** there were still stragglers, still families struggling to regroup before following others into the hills, and Alec’s mismatched band of four by then had been reduced to two. They couldn’t keep everyone safe on their own, and a disheartened glassiness to Alec’s otherwise rageful eyes told Yaz he was well aware. 

Still, he told them to leave. Screamed it, actually, with hands fisted in clumps of traitorous earth that seeped between his fingers as he curled them tighter and tighter. Yaz protested fiercely, determined to leave not a single person behind, but the Doctor gave in immediately. 

_ “Yaz, come on.”  _

_ The Doctor’s too-quick adherence was such a surprise that Yaz’s initial reaction was a chest burning anger that prompted her to whirl around with clenched fists and an argument already bubbling behind chapped lips. ‘What the hell do you mean?’ She planned to say. ‘We’re not just leaving them!" She would’ve followed.  _

_ But the solemn expression she found on the Doctor’s face sealed the rebuttal permanently in her throat. Her friend’s eyes were downcast and unfocused, watery and encapsulated by regret as scattered screeches of fear and loss closed in on her from every direction. Whilst Yaz picked up on antsy murmurs from the people whisking by of plans to flee to Sector 7, the Doctor started numbly in a different direction, away from the chaos and even further from the blame.  _

But Yaz knew she still took that blame to heart. 

There’s an unspoken agreement to skip the next sector altogether. It’ll add a few hours onto their overall journey, Yaz is sure, but the long way around is better than another potential catastrophe so close to the first. The anomalous splinters in the atmosphere almost seem to be following them, like a cartoon character mercilessly accompanied by a stormcloud overhead. They need a breather. 

And the Doctor needs to say something. 

Yaz doesn’t tolerate her brooding for nearly as long as she did before, though her impatience is vastly overpowered by the fear worming tighter and tighter around her heart. Yaz doesn’t blame the Doctor for being distressed, because anyone would be. Their usual streak of luck seems to have lost its will the moment they arrived on  _ Secunda,  _ and its consequences are disturbing.

But a dark, sagged-shoulders and heavy-head mood to this degree isn’t normal. Especially one that lasts this long. 

So Yaz picks up her pace for a couple of steps until she’s parallel to the Doctor’s sulking. Her tone and low and cautious as if speaking to a timid child, whilst insistent and unwavering with the boundless confidence rooted in care but expressed with impatience.

“Talk to me.” 

The Doctor doesn’t show any sign she heard her, booted feet carrying her onward with automation that could be easily mistaken for remote-controlled. It reminds Yaz, in a terrible way, of the time they reconnected after the Judoon had left Gloucester, when the Doctor’s very identity had been compromised for the first time and the onslaught of revelations cast a ghostly lifelessness across her face. 

Except this time, she’s not bouncing back.

“Doctor.” 

“What do you want me to say?” The Doctor responds unevenly, a shroud of sorrow clinging to her like a second skin and dampening every word. 

“Literally anything.” 

“Well, there you go.” She expects space to mourn, and Yaz would allow it, if this weren’t clearly far more than something as simple as grief. 

“Doctor, I mean it.” Yaz bends forward a bit in an attempt to catch her evasive eye, and straightens when she doesn’t succeed. “We talked about this. You can’t just pretend like I’m not here when something’s bothering you.” 

“Nothing’s bo ** _—_** ” 

“No, don’t even try.” Yaz halts her terrible lie in its beginning. “There clearly is, and it’s something besides the obvious.” 

The Doctor swallows thicky, audibly, and it’s the closest thing to a response Yaz receives. 

Suddenly emboldened, Yaz doesn’t allow the conversation to stop there. “Did something happen on Gallifrey? After you sent us home?” 

The Doctor looks like she’s about to say… something, and visibly struggles with the thought for several tense beats before letting it slip away. Alright, not that simple either, then. 

“In the Judoon prison?” 

She doesn’t even begin to entertain that one. It’s like Yaz didn’t even speak.

“Stop walking.” 

She doesn’t. 

“ _ Doctor. _ ” Yaz grasps her upper arm with the intention of stopping her in her tracks, and not unlike a disgruntled child the Doctor shrugs the hand off and keeps on walking. 

Yaz stands still. “Doctor!” 

“What, Yaz? What  _ do  _ you want me to say?” The Doctor whips around to face her so suddenly, so  _ fiercely,  _ with a heartless intensity burning behind her eyes typically reserved for just about everyone  _ except  _ for her friends, and while it threatens to send her reeling, Yaz holds her ground. “That I’m angry with myself for letting so many people die? Because I am, I’m **_—_** frustrated, I’m  _ seething.  _ I’m just angry, Yaz, alright?” Her breath is uneven and restless fingers scrape vigorously against her palms. “We can’t save people that need saving and we can’t avoid them altogether because that’s even worse. We’re still nearly two days from the control center,  _ which,  _ if you’ve forgotten, we don’t even know will be useful, it’s just all I’ve got. For all we know, whoever the masterminds of this place are will be dead when we get there. Hell, there might not even be a  _ Secunda  _ left to save by the time we get there.”

For an itchy, unnerving instant, Yaz doesn’t know what to say. She feels cold under the Doctor’s firey gaze, but doesn’t cower beneath it. How can she say that? How can she even  _ think  _ like that? They’re stuck here, for whatever reason that may be, and the alternative to  _ trying  _ to save everyone and even if they fail in the process is sitting on a self-righteous mountaintop and watching as they all die. The Doctor’s very existence revolves around trying, doing your best, helping where you can  _ when  _ you can. No exceptions, no excuses. 

Anger casts a cloud over sensibility, shadowing her more compassionate nature and bubbling a river of fire to the surface. “What about me? I’ve had to watch a lot of people die these past couple days too, you know, you don’t see me being mardy about it. I know, because you’re  _ constantly  _ telling us, that you’ve been around a long time and have seen a  _ lot  _ of things. How come all of a sudden you can’t handle getting it wrong?” 

“You don’t ** _—_** ”

“ ** _—_** _ Especially, _ ” Yaz interrupts, holding up a finger. “When you did everything you could. You’re not perfect, Doctor. You can’t save everyone.” 

“BUT I  _ CAN! _ ” The Doctor is looming over her again without moving a muscle. For a snippet of a moment there, Yaz felt taller than her, and it makes sense it wouldn’t last. “I’m the  _ only  _ one that can! Name one. Name  _ one  _ other person that’s held the universe together by the  _ skin of their teeth  _ for as long as they can... remember.” Something unreadable clouds her eyes when she loses control for a beat, but she’s quick to snatch it back. “I’m the Doctor, I’m **_—_** ” She shakes her head, unstable and vigorous _.  _ “If the  _ Timeless Child  _ can’t save everyone, who can?” 

Yaz’s brows knit together distractedly, and confusion begins to dampen her irritation until it’s overpowering it. “The what?” 

The Doctor’s mouth hangs open slightly, a stutter replacing whatever nearly slipped through parted lips. “I…” 

The repeated  _ bzzt  _ of Yaz’s mobile in her back pocket ends up being the Doctor’s saving grace, and Yaz wastes no time in pressing the pause on their argument and using the call as an excuse to breathe. 

Phone pressed to her ear, Yaz tries to adopt a tone of normalcy. “Mum?” 

_ “Hi, sweetheart, just checking in.” _ Her mother is putting on a facade as well, she can tell. Worry tinges the edges, reluctant but clear despite the poor connection.  _ “Haven’t heard from you since you left. Everything alright? I was thinking without police work you’d be home a bit more often. We’re going for dinner at Nani’s tonight, can you come?”  _

Oh yeah, there was a reason she wasn’t checking her phone. Her mum never called while she was on ‘confidential missions’, because Yaz specifically asked her not to, said it could be distracting, or compromising, and Najia always adhered. 

But now, she has no reason not to do what mothers do: which is worry, and worry loudly. The Doctor’s brow furrows as if she’s listening in, and Yaz uselessly cups her hand around her mouth and the receiver on her mobile whilst turning her back. 

“I’m just staying at a friend’s, remember?" Impatience lingers on Yaz’s tongue and she has to put effort into subduing it. “I’ll be out of town for a few days.” 

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and when her mum speaks again her voice is deepened with skepticism.  _ “Are you sure you’re alright, Yaz? You were acting strange for a few days before you left.”  _

“I’m fine, mum, just wanted to get away for a bit.” 

_ “From us?”  _

“ _ No,  _ just…” Yaz sighs, lifting the hand uselessly shielding her conversation to knead at her forehead. Her parents always did this, got the wrong idea. Took the sight of her being anything but perfectly okay as a sign they’d done something wrong. It was the hardest part of her year from hell, when the kids at her school were cruel and merciless and sent her home with an aching heart into the oblivious arms of a mum and dad that took everything personally. “Just away. I’ll be back in a few days, yeah?” 

_ “Well, alright, but check in every once in a while, will you?”  _

“I’m an adult now, mum, I don’t have to ** _—_** ” 

_ “I know, I know, you’ve said it before. You’re an adult and you don’t need us hovering, so I’ll leave you be, but… check in with Sonya at least, alright? She’s the one that said someone should check on you.”  _

That grabs her attention immediately, and Yaz is briefly overwhelmed with a strong sense of guilt. Of course Sonya would be worried. The last time she packed a bag whilst unemployed and left with little explanation was a very dark, very nearly catastrophic day, and she should’ve considered the fact that her sister would raise a brow. 

“I’ll call her later today.” Yaz promises, suddenly itching to get off the phone even more than she was to escape her and the Doctor’s scuffle.

_ “Later today? It’s nearly midnight, Yaz.”  _

Oh yeah, time is moving in a straight line, and in different quantities. 

“Right, yeah, tomorrow I mean.” Yaz stutters. “I’ve gotta go, love you mum.” 

_ “Love you too, sweetheart, suppose I’ll see you **—** ”  _

Yaz doesn’t make a habit of hanging up on her own mother, but she can feel the Doctor’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her neck, and has to turn around to address it.

“Why can’t you just tell her you’re on the field like you usually do?” The Doctor asks, with an expression that’s had the time to loosen, shift and straighten itself into something more controlled. There’s a pinch at her brow though, and a wary look in her eye that tells Yaz she’s looking for more of a confirmation than an answer. 

Yaz sighs, averting her gaze as she slips her phone back into her pocket. It was gonna come up eventually, she supposes, though the timing is less than fortunate. 

“I… might’ve gotten fired from the station.” She’s not sure why she feels so small again, why looking into the Doctor’s now relatively calm eyes feels like staring into the sun. 

“What? You?” She appears genuinely baffled, their previous argument either buried or postponed. “Yasmin Khan? The best police officer in Sheffield? How did  _ you  _ manage to get yourself fired?” 

Yaz almost rises with fury all over again, just because she’s being so  _ nice  _ all of a sudden, her usual chipper praise that typically leaves Yaz soaring now inflicting no such effect because she knows it’s just for show, just a distraction. 

Which is why Yaz doesn’t bother getting angry, or telling her the truth. If she won’t talk to Yaz, why should Yaz talk to her?

“It doesn’t matter.” She states levelly, shifting the straps on the backpack she was provided in Sector 8 against her shoulders simply so that she has something to do with her hands. 

The Doctor frowns, and really, she has no right. “What happened?” 

Yaz might laugh at the irony if she had the emotional energy.

Or the time. 

She doesn’t know where they came from, or how they approached undetected, but suddenly she and the Doctor are surrounded by seven hostile individuals with sticks sharpened into spears pointed aggressively at their faces. Yaz goes wide eyed, raising her hands innocently on instinct, but resting heavy in her chest where apprehension should lie is only a grip of irritation. 

“Well hello.” Yaz speaks first, and all eyes fall on her. 

The Doctor, meanwhile, only spins a tired and careless circle to count every head and give each assailant the same terribly vexed, impatient glare. “Again? Seriously? Thought you lot were nice.” 

“Not to your kind, we’re not.” A man with a head of unkempt ginger and the  _ pointest  _ of the sticks stabs it threateningly in the Doctor’s direction when she speaks, and she only returns with a tired look of disdain. 

“No, no,” Yaz says with a restive sigh, and the spear wavers her way until it’s pointed end nearly touches her bobbing throat. “We’re not with the ** _—_** ” 

“Secure them. We’ll take them back to base for questioning.” 

“Come on, seriously?” The Doctor’s shoulders sag and her face falls, but she doesn’t even begin to put up a fight when her hands are yanked behind her back and bound with twine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we stan confrontation


	9. The Outcasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((((TW: claustrophobia, panic attacks)))))

Numerous attempts to prove they aren't pawns of the Kakovis end with the Doctor and Yaz trapped in a makeshift holding cell not even ten feet beneath the earth. 

The bruises on the Doctor’s knees from being tossed into the dirt throb and ache. Yaz is still tending to her own, sitting with her back against an earthy wall and kneading at elbows and knees with restless hands. She hasn’t met the Doctor’s eye since they were locked up, and the Doctor doesn’t go out of her way to meet hers. 

The room is approximately twelve feet by eleven feet, empty bar its inhabitants, and it’s quite dark.  _ Very  _ dark, actually, with the only source of light a thin beam peaking through the hinged cracks of a trap door. The uneven ceiling is menacingly low, and the Doctor doesn’t even have to stand on her tiptoes to scrape the underside with her fingertips.

Now, she leans with her shoulders pressed into a far corner and picks at the dirt under her nails, bending forward and numbly rocking back for no purpose other than sensation. The soft, dull thuds resonate through the claustrophobic chamber and fall back on otherwise unoccupied ears, and she hones in on it with a fierce concentration. 

The Doctor initially thought they were being dragged by the bound wrist to another of  _ Secunda’s  _ sectors, but she was wrong. The glimpses she caught of the space above held little life apart from a handful of makeshift shelters. She spotted a stack of crafted spears and a stone circle outlining kindling and ash, a few chopped logs used for seating, and a thin body of water splitting the seemingly never ending valley in two. The air above was as thick and warm as it usually is, but the air in here is stale and overused and  _ so  _ much worse. 

She can barely make out Yaz’s form in the shadows. It’s far too dark, far too repetitive. Restless eyes skate over every inch of the bland walls for something more stimulating, and find nothing. The surface of her skin flares with an itchy threat of panic, and the Doctor clenches her fists, stills her upper body to press the back of her head into the wall. 

Her eyes slide shut, and she takes a deep breath. 

Think about something else. 

Yaz is angry with her. That’s something to think about. 

The Doctor said too much, or she said not enough. One of those. Saying nothing seemed to irk Yaz beyond reason, but opening her mouth only resulted in a tsunami of regret. She knew it would, deep down, that’s why she kept quiet. Best to keep her head down when she’s feeling sour, or she’ll do something like snap, sometimes even bite. This time, in particular, the wire connecting her sensibility to her mouth was severed. She nearly told Yaz everything, for a moment there. The first slip left her unintentionally open and forcibly raw, defenseless to anything those burning eyes might’ve dared to inquire. The term  _ Timeless Child  _ evidently meant nothing to Yaz, despite the Remnants’ tease on the subject all those years ago. The stamp prompted almost as many unspoken questions as the burdens it continuously forced on the Doctor’s shoulders every waking hour, and while the phone call drawing Yaz’s attention elicited a sense of relief, a tiny part of her teased with the possibility of openness was left unsatisfied. It was a daunting offer, but something about it momentarily shouldered a fraction of her load, and she never had the chance to unpack it. 

She  _ did  _ tell Yaz she’d explain everything eventually, but ‘everything’ potentially means rewriting Yaz’s perception, and the thought makes the Doctor’s blood run cold. She knows she’s accumulated quite the standard, is painfully aware of how highly Yaz thinks of her, and she’s naturally reluctant to play a part in dampening it. 

Then again, is this really any better, Yaz being left to make assumptions on her own? What must the Doctor look like right now, to someone like her? What if Yaz loses the airtight trust the Doctor instilled from the start?

_ Should she trust you?  _

A chill runs down the Doctor’s spine and she presses the heel of her hand to her temple when she detects, for the briefest of moments, a pressure deep beneath the skin. 

_ Do you trust yourself?  _

It’s gone when she opens her eyes, so she doesn’t close them again, but the lingering question reverberates through her bones and sends ice through her veins. 

_ Does  _ she trust herself? 

She’s not so sure anymore. 

“What d’you reckon this place is?” When Yaz’s voice fills the empty space it does nothing to sap out the tension. She speaks only as if she feels compelled to. “Why are all these people living out in the middle of nowhere?” 

The Doctor provides no more than a noncommittal hum and a barely-there shrug of the shoulders. 

“How long do they plan to keep us here?” 

_ How should I know?  _ She nearly snaps, before deeming the remark unhelpful. Instead, she holds her tongue, bites it, actually, because the walls are beginning to feel like they’re closing in and she has to put all her restricted energy into keeping them in place. 

Yaz sighs her unmasked frustration, and as the sound fades so does the baggage that comes with it. The Doctor is finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything but the dark, the storm brewing in the forefront of her consciousness, and her inability to escape it. 

Did the room get smaller? 

The Doctor, with her back already to the wall, presses into it as hard as she can but the compacted area doesn’t seem to reassume its natural size. It’s uncomfortably nauseating _ ,  _ the memories that inadvertently arise with redundant shades and solid walls. The rays of light filtering through cracks in the trapdoor are a cruel impersonation of the barred off stars laughing at her from behind a Judoon prison cell window. The lack of space to pump blood through restless limbs leaves her itching quicker than it should, and the loneliness she finds herself embodied with squeezes a vice grip around her hearts in a sickening fashion that’s far too familiar. 

Except, she’s not alone this time. Yaz is here, and neither of them will be trapped forever. And that  _ should  _ calm her quickening pulse, ease her uneven breathing. It really should. 

But it just gets worse. 

“Doctor?” Yaz’s tone has flipped on its head, sudden concern either replacing her irritation or merely masking it. The Doctor doesn’t know, and doesn’t take the time to mull it over, because with an abrupt pang in her chest and a newfound weakness to her knees, she discovers that she can’t breathe. 

_ She can’t breathe.  _

“ _ Doctor. _ ” 

Yaz stands up, or at least, a faint shuffling from the opposite end of the room suggests that she does. The Doctor doesn’t lift her head to check. 

Every day she was in that cell, the four walls contracted, the shadows deepened, and the stars laughed harder. Memories she’d suppressed for years came bubbling to the surface and refused to reroot in repression. Glorious places she wished she’d taken her friends painted teasing images in her optic nerve of what could have been. Questions, bonging like a church bell, vibrated her bones and pounded in the back of her head, and no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut she could never help but speculate potential answers. She never quite managed to pin one down. 

Who is she?

It’s terrifying, how she suddenly feels the same way she did on days six through two hundred seventy-two, yet simultaneously overridden with every life-altering speculation that came after, all in the form of trembles and shallow breaths that she fails to steady but that demand immediate reprieve.

_ Why  _ is she? 

The dark, stale and occupied yet  _ so _ cold and lonely bears so many questions. Why can’t it provide the answers as well? 

For a blink, just a blink, she sees  _ him  _ again, parting the shadows like the Red Sea with a strike of lightning purple and the toothy snarl of the devil’s right hand man. 

_ Him.  _ Always him, invading her personal space and twisting her better nature into something sick. He’s always there to laugh, daunt,  _ challenge,  _ or simply mock. That’s what he does now, as she cowers in the deep and  _ aching  _ dark, is demean and belittle. Leer at her quaking state with a nauseating grin of satisfaction, shivering with glee, and a merciless layer of pity splayed out on top just to kick her while she’s down. 

When she blinks again, the figment of her imagination has retreated back into its rightful place, but the laughter is still there, drumming against her skull from the inside as if trying to manifest itself into reality. It might as well be real. The Master might as well be in this very room, before her very eyes, closing his merciless, dirt-cakes fingers around her racing hearts. 

As the room contracts, so does she, and soon the Doctor finds herself seated on the floor with her head in her hands and her hearts in her throat. Somewhere in the quiet chaos is the sound of Yaz’s distress, her well-intended demands for the Doctor to speak scraping the very surface of her claustrophobic consciousness but never quite piercing it, never truly resonating. 

A hand lands on her arm, and typically she’d flinch, draw far, far away, from the attempt of a connection so close it might actually expose her secrets for all to see, and all to abhor. 

But instead, she accepts it, leans into it, even, because she’s not alone. She’s not doomed, she’s not trapped forever, and above that locked trapdoor are a boundless supply of distractions and reasons to keep trying. 

That’s who she is, isn’t she? The man, or woman, rather, that never stops trying. 

At least, that’s the way Yaz sees her. Maybe it’s a perception she should work harder to factualize. 

Or maybe there’s no point. 

_ Giving up so soon?  _ Someone asks her, and it definitely doesn’t come from Yaz.  _ Have to say, I’m a tad disappointed.  _

Through gritted teeth, the Doctor lets out a shuddering exhale and grips her knees to work sensation back into her fingers.

No. She’s not giving up. 

The dark isn’t endless, and it won’t last forever, but there’s a good chance she will. 

She has to try, because the alternative is to simply waste away. 

The Doctor hears her name spoken clearly for the first time in an imperceivable period, and just as she leans into the gentle pressure near her shoulder, she leans into the voice. 

Yaz is here. Yaz is here. 

_ You’re not back in prison. You’re not alone.  _

It initially sounds like a reassurance from herself, to herself, but the only reason it works is because it does not come from herself at all. 

The Doctor’s eyes readjust to the shadows, Yaz’s piercing eyes and fearful frown sharpening and refocusing until it’s clear as can be in the poor light. “Hey.” Her voice is pinched with an audibly lingering unease, but a relieved smile slowly paints its way across her lips. “Back with me?” 

The Doctor swallows, and the fists she’d clenched in the fabric of her trousers slowly loosen their hold. Here in the aftermath, as her mind begins to quiet down and manages to distinguish one shade of grey from the other, she has enough sensibility to feel ashamed.

“Alright?” Yaz’s smile slips when the Doctor doesn’t immediately respond, so even when words continue to get lost on their way between parted lips, the Doctor makes sure to nod. 

“Alright.” She manages at last, voice nearly as scratchy as it was from those hundreds of days of lack of use. She clears her throat, and slowly leans forward off the wall. “Sorry.” 

Normally, this is where Yaz, being as sweet and painfully considerate as she is, would tell her not to apologize, that she’s allowed to feel how she feels, react how she reacts. Yeah, that sounds like something Yaz would say. 

Which makes it especially jarring when she doesn’t respond for nearly a full minute. The Doctor counts off every second, twitching a finger with every beat. 

“Three years, was it?” Yaz asks, in an uncertain, uneasy pitch hardly above a whisper. 

Shamefully, because three years sounds like  _ nothing  _ in comparison to the eons she’s been around, the Doctor gulps. “Yeah?” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m  _ fine. _ ”

“I didn’t say you weren’t!” Yaz pipes colorfully, features reanimating into something defensive. “But—”

There’s a creak from above as the trapdoor is yanked open, and sunlight pours into the black until it’s replacing it entirely. The Doctor ducks her head away from the source, blinking rapidly to accommodate her burning eyes, but instantaneously the underground cell feels larger and the air is far more breathable. Yaz stands immediately, and the Doctor is a bit slower to follow. 

“Come on.” The red-haired man from before looms from above with two comrades at his side, and the Doctor feels like an ant in an ant farm until one of them drops a rope down into the hole. “Climb up.” 

It’s not an offering of freedom, she can tell that much. She allows Yaz to ascend to the surface first, which she does with a remarkable ease that the Doctor finds a tad impressive. Her own limbs don’t seem to cooperate nearly as well though, and the Doctor has to push through subtly trembling arms and grunted pants as she claws her way to the top.

She flops on her back, hand on her heaving chest when she emerges from the gap. Yaz is already on her feet, bending to brush the dirt from her knees and abruptly straightening when the business end of a spear is shoved dangerously close to the space between her eyes. Yaz acts with a familiar confidence in the way she rolls her eyes and refrains from backing down. 

“Put that away, we’re not going anywhere.” Yaz confidently knocks it to the side and sighs when it reassumes position. “Come on, we’re friendly, and we don’t talk in the face of pointy sticks.” 

The Doctor rolls over onto hands and knees then pushes to her feet as mental and physical energy slowly reconsumes her, but slightly comes up short of her usual dominant cadence when she speaks. “She’s right. If you’ve got questions, all you have to do is ask.” 

To her surprise, the man in charge doesn’t regard her even after she’s spoken. He keeps his eyes trained on Yaz and his weapon in her face as if she’s the true threat, and the Doctor feels an unwarranted, unexpected pang of jealousy. 

“Oh, we’ve got questions, alright.” He yanks his weapon to the left, a clear indication for them to move. It’s Yaz who steps first, and the Doctor who follows with dragging feet a disgruntled couple of steps behind. 

The Doctor finds no outstanding threat above the seven ragtag refugees who dragged them here in the first place, and each and every one of them bristle with identical distrustful wariness as she and Yaz are forced to sit on a displaced log at the forefront of their attention. The overheated  _ Secunda  _ atmosphere sticks to her skin more uncomfortably than it ever has, and the Doctor itches to sprint through vast valleys just to replace it with the cool brush of wind. 

She’s rooted in place, though, forced onto her rear at Yaz’s side with the tip of a spear commandingly resting against her shoulder. She does so with an unsteady flop, while Yaz eases down as if it’s her own choice. 

The ringleader is a stocky bloke. Not much taller than the Doctor but quite possibly twice as wide, and she wonders whether his leadership was assigned based on merit or muscles. His ginger hair is greasy and overgrown, falling in front of amber eyes with every brush of wind. 

He lowers his spear to rest the dull end on the ground, fingers worming tightly around the wood and vengeful eyes trained on the calmness of Yaz’s own. “Where are the Kakovis operating from?” He demands. “And how do we access it?” 

“We were actually wondering that ourselves.” The Doctor pipes up, frustrated when the man’s attention doesn’t shift. “Know anyone we could ask?” 

She rarely intends on drawing the spotlight. In fact, it happens quite naturally; a shockingly calm layer to her speech and a mesmerizingly confident glimmer in her eye often —  _ always,  _ actually — bending the room around her to provide the Doctor with its utmost attention. This time, for some reason, the adversary doesn’t even spare her the time of day. 

“Tell us everything you know,” The man snarls, outlined by dithering comrades that bear a smaller stature but the same lack of faith. “Or we’ll kill you.” 

“Mate, I’m telling you.” Yaz takes the attention in her stride, rises with it, without actually standing. If the Doctor looks closely, and she does —  _ quite  _ closely, in fact — without the usual distraction of primary responsibility, she can see an ever-growing glimmer of untouchable courage in Yaz’s steady eye that she finds herself envying. “We weren’t sent by the Kakovis. We’re just here to help.” 

“You’re clearly not from around here, with attire like that.” He looks Yaz up and down with a distasteful glare pausing at her star-studded jumper with the sleeves rolled past her elbows, and the Doctor frowns. She herself is sporting rainbow stripes and striking blue trousers that swish beneath her bouncing knees in a truly non traditional fashion. That’s why she chose this outfit out of everything else the charity shop had to offer — it stood out, it laid all eyes upon her so that she could ensure her voice was absolutely heard. Why does she suddenly feel like she’s cloaked in an aura of uninteresting beige? “Which means you must be tools of the enemy.” 

“Why exactly would they send  _ us  _ of all people?” Yaz tilts her head in the same way the Doctor might, as if she’s truly interested in the answer. “I mean, look at us. What exactly are we gonna do?” 

“You could be children playing chase and the facts would remain the same. If the Kakovis sent you, it doesn’t matter what you look like, what size you are, what  _ strength  _ you wield. If you’re here to kill, that’s exactly what you’ll do. So if you don’t want the tables to be turned I suggest speaking your mind, and doing so  _ very  _ quickly.” The appointed guards at his left and right take a menacing step forward. 

“ _ If  _ the Kakovis sent us.” The Doctor restates, and still, he doesn’t even look her way. “Which they didn’t, so you can tell your mates here to take a step back.” 

He does nothing of the sort. 

The Doctor lets out a short, irritated sigh.  _ Fine.  _ If he won’t talk to her, she doesn’t have to talk to him. Yaz not only seems to have it covered, but appears to actually be  _ enjoying  _ the business end of the negative attention. 

So the Doctor lets her have it. It’s not often she lets her friends take the reins, but she already tried to wield them herself, and something in her wonky demeanor must be projecting a vibe of unimportance. It’s fine, it’s not a big deal, and she stops herself from reading too much into it. 

For the most part.

When she rezones on the conversation at hand that carries on without a care for her say, Yaz has flipped the topic of discussion on its head. 

“If you won’t let me answer your question—.”  _ Me.  _ Yaz said  _ ‘me’,  _ not  _ ‘us’.  _ Whatever energy the Doctor is projecting into the immediate space that deems her offerings unhelpful, Yaz is picking up on it too. That, the Doctor finds, is a bit harder not to read into. “Maybe you could answer a couple of mine.”  _ ‘Mine’.  _ Not  _ ‘ours’.  _ “What are you lot doing out here in the middle of nowhere? The sectors are there so that everyone has somewhere comfy to sleep at night, aren’t they? Why’d you choose shoddy homes made of… bramble? Over stability? Especially now, with the Kakovis on the loose. Strength in numbers, isn’t it?” 

The amber-eyed man bristles, fingers winding tighter around the spear as he digs it tensely into the earth. “Choose _? _ We didn’t choose exile, it was wrongfully forced on us, and we have your lot to thank. Then again, perhaps it was naive of us to think people like us would ever truly find a safe haven.” 

“People like you?” Yaz quirks her brow. “You’re surrounded by people like you. That’s why this place exists, so that people like you  _ can  _ have a safe place to sleep at night.” 

He’s shaking his head impatiently before Yaz has even finished speaking. “An entire station built to withstand the very forces that employed us? The day the very first breach was reported and the people here discovered they’d been found, they turned on us, cast us out of our own homes. We have no place here anymore, yet we can’t leave.” 

“Hang on,” The Doctor snaps her head up, and for the first proper time, she earns the man’s gaze. “You worked for the Kakovis?” 

“Not willingly.” He bristles at the notion, unoccupied hand curling into a fist. “Some of us were doomed to pay off the debts of our ancestors, some of us had families in cages for the simple sake of leverage, and some of us…” A barely perceivable shiver seems to shroud his rage for a beat before it’s forcibly stabilized. “Were born straight into it.” 

The Doctor takes a wild guess that he is one of the latter. 

“Wait,” He frowns deeply and for the first time, it’s not a strictly hostile expression. He regards Yaz once again, eyes creased as he works to string certain factors together. “The radio implant we analyzed from one of the Kakovis’ previous attempts contained a neurologically transmitted database of all offenders. You… you should know all of this already.” 

“Well, we don’t.” Yaz says evenly, leaning into the opportunity to prove their innocence, but the Doctor can tell she’s still a bit fixated on the man’s preceding words. “So what does that tell you?” 

There’s a curious pause before the man signals something to two of his comrades, and the Doctor struggles not to flinch when the armed woman closest to herself reaches out abruptly to sweep the Doctor’s hair away from her neck. She flinches in surprise, while another does the same to Yaz, who neither physically or mentally budges, and they nod to their leader. 

“No implant.” He blanches with surprise, grip slackening around his spear. “You… really aren’t with the Kakovis.” 

The Doctor opens her mouth to say something quick, hopefully clever and almost definitely helpful, but Yaz beats her to it. 

“ _ Finally.  _ Yes, like we told you, we’re just here to lend a hand. Now, since that’s out of the way, what’s your name?” 

The man is still working to unfizzle from the narrative he constructed, but manages a dumbfounded stutter after only a slight beat. “Ronin.” 

“Nice to meet you properly then, Ronin. I’m Yaz—” The Doctor recognizes a moment too late Yaz’s attempt to let her introduce herself. With a poorly concealed sigh, Yaz speaks for her. “That’s the Doctor. Now, you worked for the Kakovis, yeah? Anything  _ you  _ can tell  _ us  _ about them that might help us put a stop to all this?” 

Ronin does. He has quite a lot to say, actually, and it’s probably very helpful, probably quite useful. It’s a good thing Yaz seems to be paying attention, because the Doctor is steadily sinking further and further into the numbing pits of self doubt, and the light filtering through the exit is dimming by the nanosecond. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying! Comments/kudos are always appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are always appreciated !! THIS IS GONNA BE QUITE THE RIDE


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